


You Don't Want Any More From Me

by telemachus



Category: Pride (2014)
Genre: 1980s, Angst, Backstory, Developing Relationship, Friends to Lovers, HIV/AIDS, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-02
Updated: 2015-07-02
Packaged: 2018-04-07 07:19:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 23,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4254375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/telemachus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By 1984/5, Jonathan and Gethin seem like they've been together forever, seem like they were destined to be together, like they belong together - yes?</p><p>But that's not the start of the story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As ever in this particular fandom - these are the characters from the film, I don't know anything about the real people who share their names, I don't want to, that would be weird.
> 
> And, in case it needs saying, various opinions are expressed, not all of them very nice; they are the opinions of the characters, not mine.
> 
> Title, of course, from "Tainted Love" by Soft Cell.

**1979**

 

“This is becoming a habit,” Gethin mutters, as he turns off the alarm. Ignoring the still-sleeping lump – trying to ignore him – he goes to the bathroom, dresses, makes coffee – comes back and stands, wondering.

Eventually, he shakes his head, puts the second cup down by the bed, and goes down to the bookshop.

One thing about living above work – he can pop back later and check said lump has moved on.

One thing about sleeping with friends – at least you know you can trust him not to take your passport.

Cigarettes, food, alcohol – to any of those he will help himself, yes, but nothing important.

Besides, sex with friends is good, right?

No strings, no danger.

Friendly sex.

Yes.

 

 

After he’s gone, Jonathan pulls himself cautiously upright, and sips the unsweetened, cooling coffee.

Gives up, and lights a cigarette instead – one of his own, Gethin would be relieved to know.

He thinks.

Smiles.

On his way out, he takes another coffee down to the shop.

White, no sugar, just as Gethin likes it.

“Good habit?” he asks casually, “or one you want to break?”

The shrug which answers tells its own tale.

The fact he asks at all – tells another.

 

 

&&&&&&&&&&&

 

 

“Definitely a habit,” Gethin sounds worried this time, muttering as he waits for the kettle, frowning as he realises he has made Jonathan’s coffee correctly – black, two sugar – without having to try to remember.

Sunday today. Later up – no shop opening.

Jonathan peers at him blearily, struggles upright, takes the coffee. Tries not to smile at the taste.

“Good habit?” he asks again, and seeing the shrug again forces him to say more, “or bad? Fucks sake, habit you want to break? Only it didn’t seem like it last night.”

Gethin turns away, starts picking up clothes, sorting them – his on to the chair, into the washbasket, Jonathan’s onto the bed, a not-so-very-subtle hint.

“Stupid habit,” he answers, when the silence and the stare make it impossible to ignore the question longer, “stupid. So many opportunities – for both of us – and – what are we doing? Playing at being something we aren’t.”

This time the stare is genuine, not merely a stage-prop.

“Are you implying we are somehow – obligated – to fuck all the gay men in London? Because – I don’t know about you – maybe they’re built differently in Wales – but I don’t have the bloody time. Or energy. What’s the problem with a – habit?”

Gethin looks, looks away before he falls into the trap of believing the concern in those eyes real.

“Christ,” he mutters this time, and it isn’t clear whether it’s a curse or a prayer.

“A – habit – as you call it, could be nice. I like you – you like me – we have fun – outside of bed, I mean, and fuck knows, we’re pretty good in bed too. Might be better if we weren’t half-plastered every time.”

Gethin folds the t-shirt he’s holding, then changes his mind, puts it for washing anyway.

“Most people call it a relationship, but – habit is ok. If that's what you want to call it.”

Jonathan waits.

He leans forward, stretches a hand out,

“Geth? Sorry. Gethin. I – you’re right. No. You were right. Six times is a habit. What is it now though, eight? Ten? I don’t even know anymore,” he sighs, “makes it more than an accidental habit, eh? Proper habit? How about – official habit?”

Gethin looks at him,

“I don’t know why you’d say that,” he says, and he sounds genuine. As though he doesn't understand, so Jonathan tries again.

“I’m saying – we could – you,” he rubs his hand over his face – for someone so naturally articulate, words are not coming easily. Faced with this incomprehension so early in the morning he has to pause, think, then, “be my boyfriend, go out? Whatever they call it these days?”

Gethin – of all things – laughs.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he says, and turns away, “you know I don’t do relationships. And I know you don’t either. At least, not successfully. We’re friends. You want to start fighting and bitching when one of us is five minutes late? Or when one of us sees a pretty face, or just feels horny – fucks someone else? Or – do you want to be one of those dressed to match couples, never apart?”

Of course not, Jonathan thinks but doesn't say, no, I don’t want any of that. Just – there has to be another way, doesn't there?

Isn’t that what it’s about?

Finding my way – you finding your way – and – oh fuck, corny song lyrics again – making our way together?

Isn’t that part of Gay Lib?

But the tightness in Gethin’s spine tells him not to say it right now.

So he sighs, swallows the last of the coffee, and swings himself upright, ready to dress.

“Accidental habit it is,” he agrees, and adds silently – for now. 

 

 

&&&&&&&&&&&

 

 

The next dozen times, Jonathan has the decency to stay under the covers, pretend to be asleep, until Gethin has left – Gethin has the decency not to mutter, or poke him, or in any way test the reality of his sleep.

He’s glad to have his mid-morning coffee brought down though.

 

&&&&&&&

 

 

Gethin pauses in the rearranging of a paltry attempt at a pre-Christmas window, and thinks, longingly, of a tall, flamboyant figure. Wishes, for a second, that one of those mid-morning coffees with a smile that brings the night before flooding back, was about to appear.

Wishes that he could just – ask for help with reaching that tricky bit, just casually, without making an issue of it.

Wonders if a – habit – like that would be too easy to fall into, too hard to climb out of.

Reminds himself that it would, that he doesn’t do relationships.

That he hasn’t seen Jonathan surprisingly-affectionate-and-not-at-all-surprisingly-brilliant-at-blow-jobs Blake for a few weeks now.

That it doesn't matter.

 

 

&&&&&&&&

 

 

When the first postcard comes to the shop, delivered with all the official mail, Gethin doesn't let himself wonder why there – why not the flat – after all, it’s not as though he doesn't know the address.

He doesn't let himself notice how his body relaxes, smiles, when he reads the message – _On tour, for once, trying not to make new habits. J._ – and he resents that he immediately knows who J is. The picture itself, a standard country town scene, he pins up on the board – as much, he tells himself, as a contrast to the other posters, as for any other reason.

More than.

 

&&&&&&&&&&

 

The next one, a few days later, is longer.

_Still touring. Miss London. Simon has contact list – could do with reminded real life still there? J._

The arrogance is – disturbingly charming. Gethin shakes himself, puts the picture next to the other – for contrast, he mutters again – and wonders in what part of Jonathan’s rich fantasy world he represents real life.

He doesn't let himself examine the pang of – of what – annoyance – that Simon is the one with the list of where Jonathan is and when.

Not annoyance, he admits, later, alone in bed.

Jealousy.

Which is stupid. So he bottles it up, pushes it away.

Doesn't let himself think about Jonathan in his bed, about the warmth of him, the size of him, the sheer – aliveness – of him. The heat, the need, the feel of him, on top, underneath – the way he moves so – almost as though he knows what Gethin wants before he says it – well, a voice of reason puts in, all those nights, he’s not stupid, you’re not that fussy. 

Doesn't let himself imagine what it would be like if those postcards were letters, sealed and personal, sent to the flat. 

I don’t do relationships, he reminds himself instead, and thinks of the smiley Canadian who came into the shop – and came in the backroom – earlier. So many possibilities out there – so much fun to be had.

 

 

&&&&&&&&&

 

 

The third postcard – and by now Gethin is reluctantly waiting for it, wondering why so long – is over a week later.

_Hoped to hear from you_ , it says, and how, he wonders, can someone sound so sad in so few words? _Worried now. Another two months til I’m back – let me know you are ok. J._

And for all it seems sweet – how dare he write something so – personal – so insinuating – on a card anyone could read?

 

 

&&&&&&&&&

 

 

The next one isn’t a postcard, it’s a Christmas card. Hand-drawn, a pencil sketch of – some bloody hills – Gethin doesn’t know where, and he doesn't care, he doesn't want to look at a picture like that.

He’s a city boy now.

Remote villages, hills with snow on, clear cold starlit nights – don’t mean anything these days. 

He likes his nights lit by fluorescents and neon, thank you very much.

Patronising fucker.

He barely reads the message, doesn't let himself think about the time taken, the care, so busy protecting himself from a different pain.

_Have yourself a merry little Christmas, darling, make the Yuletide gay......and maybe write to me? Provinces are overrated, spare me some metropolitan glamour. J._

 

 

&&&&&&&&&&&&

 

Christmas is as Christmas is for Gethin.

Busy season in all the lead-up, selling gifts, partying hard.

Quiet couple of days recovering, and then it’s straight into selling the books on how to recover, how to get by without those who rejected you over the Season of Goodwill – so he has rather cynically noticed over the years.

And of course, a New Year’s Eve party to attend – a party which not only ends well, but has several – enjoyable interludes. So that’s ok.


	2. Chapter 2

**1980**

 

In the New Year, the postcards come every few days – Gethin realises he could, if he wanted, track the tour’s progress on a map by them. And, indeed, the reception by the ebullience of the signature initial.

If he wanted.

Which, of course, he doesn't.

 

&&&&&&&&&&

 

“Not long now, sweetie,” Gethin nods, vaguely, as one does, the customer being always right, even as he is putting the strange, mismatched trio of books through the till, not concentrating on what he is agreeing to even as the man goes on, “another three weeks – five venues – then he’ll be back. You’ll be glad to see him – at least, I hope so?”

And the question in the voice is what gets through. 

It is Simon, of course, eyebrow raised, and then, at a volume that most of the shop must be able to hear, and afterwards Gethin can only thank whoever watches over gay bookshop managers that it’s a quiet day,

“Honestly, sweetie, I know they say treat ‘em mean, keep ‘em keen, but – really – your man doesn't have the temperament for it. It’s all most unfair on the rest of the cast, you know.”

Gethin opens his mouth, remembers this is a customer, shuts it again, hears what was just said, opens again, and, finally,

“Christ Jesus – what? Which man?”

Which is, he realises afterwards, almost the stupidest thing to say he could have found.

Simon peals with laughter – clearly this is the highlight of his day, the purchase has been well worth every penny already,

“Oooh, like that is it? How many men have you got on your tail, little miss innocent? Jonathan, sweetie, Jonathan a-whole-night-is-too-long-and-I-never-do-repeats Blake. All I hear from him is why haven’t you written, why haven’t I made you write, who have I seen you with – and you know me, sweetie, I never tell tales – but really – why haven’t you written to the poor love?”

Gethin just looks at him. 

He doesn’t know where to start with that lot.

He doesn't particularly like Simon anyway.

Simon waits, head cocked to the side, eyes bright, scenting something interesting – gossip – excitement. It doesn’t much matter to him whether Gethin has been sleeping with someone else, or playing hard to get, or writing letters which have been lost in the post – he gave up his own pursuit of Jonathan two years ago, settled for friendship.

It certainly doesn't occur to Simon that Gethin might simply not be interested.

To be fair, the way Gethin is now blushing, and looking down, and looking back up, and fighting for words – he doesn't look uninterested.

Simon takes pity after a few moments, and smiles,

“I brought you the addresses,” he says, “honestly sweetie, I know we aren’t ever so close, but really – you only had to say you’d lost them. Now, write to him. Tell him all about the welcome home he’s getting,” and he winks as he places the paper on the desk, takes the books, and saunters out.

Suddenly aware that the three other people in the shop are staring, Gethin picks up the paper, and screws it into a ball.

He’s about to throw it away, when one says,

“Oh no, you can’t,” and since when, Gethin wonders sourly, did his life become part of the entertainment, “no, if he’s pining you have to write nicely. Let him down gently.”

There’s a murmur of agreement, and – customers are always right – Gethin finds himself putting the paper in his pocket.

Later he takes it out, looks at it, and – sits down to write.

_Jonathan,_ he starts, _I don’t know what the fuck you have said to Simon, or to anyone else, or why, or what the bloody hell you think you’re playing at. But we are not, and never were, in a relationship, or going out, or anything more than two friends who fucked. It’s not happening again. Forget it._

_End of story._

He signs it, and reads it back.

It’s clear, concise, says what he wants.

Almost what he wants. A small part of himself sighs, and thinks – really? Never again? But no, clearly that way all kind of horrible emotional involvement lies; and he doesn't do that.

Ever.

He seals the envelope, writes Jonathan’s name. Notices how small, how tidy the initial looks formed by his pen, as compared to the flamboyant sweeping _ **J**_ he is now used to.

Pauses before adding the address.

It isn’t a lodging house, a B&B, a hotel. It’s the actual theatre.

Where Jonathan will be working.

So – he’ll read this and then have to make-up, go on stage, do – whatever it is he is doing at the moment.

Gethin doesn’t like him – no, that's not true. Gethin did like him a lot before this all started getting silly. 

Enough that he doesn't want to screw up his day – his job. 

Or, it occurs to him, the day of everyone else in the company. He has seen Jonathan on a bad day, and the man knows how to share.

Idly he plays with the letter between his fingers.

Maybe not best sent. Best to wait.

Send it to his home maybe – wherever that is – and Gethin realises he isn’t quite sure – not precisely.

Well, he certainly isn’t going to ask Simon.

No.

Keep it, wait until he sees him?

But that is silly. Just say it.

He sighs again – Jonathan seems to make him sigh – and puts the letter aside.

 

 

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

 

 

Of course, Gethin hasn’t marked the day Jonathan is due back in London in his diary.

He isn’t, truth to tell, that bothered.

At all.

No.

They were friends, they fucked.

Jonathan got a bit – silly.

There’s been the postcards – which were, kind of, sweet, and a bit much, maybe, but – they were friends, so, not so bad.

But – the whole – Simon turning up like that – and saying – all that – that was odd.

Best left.

If they run into each other again – and they will, he knows they will, after all, London is big, the gay scene is pretty extensive, but – they have a lot of friends in common, a lot of the same groups interest them – and oh shit, will Jonathan be coming to any of the numerous backroom meetings once he’s back in town? 

And smiling.

And – insinuating things that aren’t real, that never could be real.

Still.

He doesn't know when that is – he isn’t going to find out, to try and remember.

He isn’t.

Only.

It was last week, wasn’t it?

And he hasn’t been round yet.

Which is good.

Surely.

But somewhere inside a flame shrinks, wavers in the withering disdain of Gethin’s certainty, and – doesn't quite go out.


	3. Chapter 3

The next time he sees Jonathan – he isn’t even sure it’s him.

After all, there must be plenty of gay men in London that tall, with longish straggly honey-blond curls.

Who move gracefully.

Catch the eye.

Dance like the club belongs to them and they’re putting on a show.

Are surrounded by shouting, laughing friends.

Seize the hand of one, and duck out of the back door, still laughing.

Plenty of them.

Gethin doesn't stare, doesn't let himself think about what is happening out there.

Doesn't drink a bit more than he planned to, doesn't accept the first offer and take the first pretty boy who smiles back to his flat just out of a need to prove something.

No. 

That was the plan for the night all along.

 

 

&&&&&&&&&&

 

 

The next time he’s sure it’s Jonathan – is at a party.

Loud, smoky, dimly lit – but it’s clearly him.

Gethin leans against the wall, trying not to stare.

He looks – as he always looks – bloody gorgeous.

For a moment, Gethin wonders if there is a chance of ending the night as they have so often before.

Then he sees the boy – pretty, dark, wide-eyed – Jonathan is showing off to.

Ah.

He takes another drink from the beer bottle he is cradling, and tells himself that he never expected anything else.

Never wanted anything else.

“You and me both, sweetie,” it is Simon again – of course it is, Gethin thinks, and wonders what the other thinks he can read in his face, “difference is – I tried, you – what were you thinking? You had that on a plate, and you turned it down.”

He’s drunk, he’s newly single, again, and not enjoying it much, Gethin reminds himself, and tries to be kind.

“It wasn’t like that,” he says, “we didn’t – weren’t – I don’t do relationships.”

Simon laughs,

“You should meet my ex – Mathew,” he says, “you’d get along fine. He doesn't do monogamy either. Make a lovely pair you would. You could compare tricks over breakfast. Bastard.”

Gethin pats him, vaguely, and then wanders away – emotional entanglements not his cup of tea, thank you very much.

Simon watches him go, watches Jonathan’s eyes follow him, watches the boy’s smile fix for an instant as he sees also, drinks, and lets his own eyes wander hopefully round the room – because he, unlike that Welsh idiot, he thinks, he is lonely, and has the courage to admit it.

 

&&&&&&&&&

 

Of course, it was bound to happen, Gethin tells himself.

Sooner or later.

Only – he was hoping it would be later, he thinks, as he registers the tall figure, slouching along the shelves, appearing to look for something, turning, glancing, eyes – eyes sliding away.

And then the shock of realising – and why is it a shock, he made it plain enough he was up for something like this – he isn’t alone.

The boy from the party is with him.

Very with him.

Completely, excessively with him.

Hands in each other’s pockets, whispering, comparing books, giggling, with him.

Gethin feels his mouth tighten, and has to consciously relax – he doesn’t want to look like his mother, pursing his lips at a public display of affection.

After all, why shouldn’t they?

No skin off his nose, is it?

But when the lad – and he doesn't know or care what his name is – starts flicking the pages of a book, spoiling them, he hears himself sounding uncannily like any of the women in his home village, his clipped delivery bringing out his accent,

“Excuse me, can you pay for that or put it down please?”

And the stare that goes with it is copied, he knows, from Mrs Jones the sweetshop.

He doesn't flush at the realisation.

He doesn't flush even when the boy looks – horrified, upset – and he realises how unfair he is being.

He only flushes when Jonathan puts his arm, protective, round the lad – who really isn’t that young, he just looks it somehow – and pulls out his wallet with the other hand.

“Really, Geth,” he says, and the sorrow in his eyes cuts deeper than the annoyance at the shortening, deeper than it should, “whatever happened to compassion in capitalism?”

He pulls out a couple of pound notes, hands them over, and turns away, not even waiting for the change in his need to lead the boy away somewhere kinder.

As they walk out, Gethin realises what the book was – a “coping with coming out, with your parents’ rejection, with discovering you can survive it” type guide – and feels worse.

That night, for the first time for a long while, he lets himself remember – not the sorrow, not even the drunken sparkle, but the serious, morning-after not-quite-affection in those same brown eyes.

That night, for the first time for a long while, he allows himself to think about those nights – about just how good it was – how easy, how much fun – how – uncomplicated. How satisfying the fucking was – and how warm the laughter.

That night he admits to himself, he may have made a mistake.

But in the grey light of dawn, as he is setting up the shop after a long night of sleeplessness, he remembers also – the inevitable infidelity, the vicious arguments he has witnessed, the sarcasm, the hurt, the pathetic aping of a heterosexual norm – and no. That isn’t what he wants, that isn’t what he left home for.

He doesn't let himself listen to the tiny voice inside that asks – but what is? You could have lived alone there. Driven out to Chester for a shag every couple of weeks.

If you didn’t want more than that, why bother with exile?

 

 

&&&&&&&&&

 

But – it’s 1980. 

It’s a good year to be young, and single, and attractive, and gay in London.

It’s a good year to be Gethin.

Maybe not the best – there’s still a government to bring down, still laws that need changing, still protests to join, marches to walk, shouting to do, Ian Curtis commits suicide and why does the death of someone you’ve never met hurt – but, compared to other years, and 1965, 1968 stand out as particularly bad ones – 1980 is a good year.

And as the conservative government finds its feet, starts bringing in tighter budgets, cuts, and Gethin cares, joins protests, marches, cannot believe the complacency of so many when striker’s benefits are cut, when rhetoric is used for hate, when unemployment rises and those who aren’t affected don’t seem to see the harm – but for all that, it’s a good year to have a “proper job”. 

To be a bourgeois shop manager.

It isn’t – and it seems likely the next few won’t be either – a good year to be an actor. A fringe actor, interested in experimental work – work relevant to today – not an establishment RSC actor.

An actor so short of work, that he can go off for days to “explore the wonderful Alton Towers – God, if they’d had places like that when we were young, I’d’ve been a happy lad”, soon after it opens.

With a group of equally footloose friends.

Taking nothing seriously, even when he comes to protests, to Pride, it’s only for the sake of a day out, a party, a new set of faces to charm, a new boyfriend.

Not that it concerns Gethin.

It doesn't.

It really doesn't.


	4. Chapter 4

It’s almost December, traditional season of good cheer and kindness to all, it is the anniversary of the last time they fucked – why does he know that – and the irony is not lost on Gethin, when he next becomes aware of Jonathan.

Oh, he’s been around all these months, laughing, loud, singing, shouting even, part of the meetings, part of the protests – but always wrapped around some boy or other.

And Gethin knows exactly which one, and how long they last, and what they look like.

He knows how he sounds too – or how he would sound if he spoke about them, or about Jonathan one-pretty-thing-after-another, Jonathan see-I-was-right-he-can’t-be-faithful-any-more-than-I-could, Jonathan aren’t-I-glad-I-didn’t-make-that-mistake, Jonathan god-I-still-fancy-him-rotten, Jonathan I-wish-we-could-fuck-again-and-get-him-out-of-my-system, Jonathan but-he-doesn't-even-seem-to-know-I-exist-now Blake.

However.

It is not quite December, and cold, and the shop is, of course, full of tinsel and suggestions for Christmas presents, when Gethin notices Jonathan again.

This time, he is looking at the noticeboard.

This time, he is on his own.

This time, he looks – battered. Not physically, just – and the word isn’t one Gethin often reaches for – spiritually.

Tired, maybe.

Lost that usual flamboyance.

For some reason it’s quiet – and that should be a cause for concern really, only, somehow, right now, his profit margin seems less important than this man standing here, looking so – unlike himself.

Gethin leaves the till, goes over, puts a hand on his arm, and,

“Are you looking for something in particular?”

It isn’t what he wants to say, but ‘are you alright’ is a phrase he has long loathed for its complete meaninglessness. ‘What is wrong’ seems too much to someone he has barely spoken to for – almost a year now.

Jonathan gives a rueful sort of smile, sort of shrug,

“Somewhere cheap. Show fell through – which means no lodgings sorted for me,” he sees Gethin’s incomprehension, “supposed to be touring again – panto – but there was a mix-up over dates. So I’m – high and dry.”

Gethin must be easier to read than he thought, because the question in his mind, that he doesn't know how to ask is answered next.

“Paul’s gone. Well, no, obviously he isn’t gone, he’s where he was, only – I’m not welcome anymore,” he shrugs, “I seem to be a bad liar. Unfortunate in my chosen profession, you’d think.”

Gethin can’t help but smile back, and then he hears himself saying,

“How long for – how long do you need somewhere? Only – the flat is – well, you know, it’s not massive, but there’s space for two.”

Stupid, he thinks, but surely – surely – Jonathan, Jonathan will laugh it away.

Jonathan, who is now looking at him with – well, with an expression that is very hard to read.

Jonathan who is grinning, and Gethin finds himself grinning back, and yes, he has missed this – this easy humour, this uncomplicated friendship that was just starting out.

Jonathan who nods, 

“Well, there’s a surprise. I’m off by January – they managed to book those venues, don’t ask, it’s a long and tedious story – so six weeks or so. But to be honest, I could do with somewhere to leave things – a base camp if you like. Ideal lodger really, about half the time it’s just a few bags.”

Gethin isn’t stupid – there is no way someone like Jonathan travels as light as he pretends – but – having said it, how can he go back on the offer?

“Hang about,” he says instead, “I’ll be closing in half an hour, come up and see what you think.”

 

 

&&&&&&&&&&&

 

 

“It’s only small,” Gethin says, opening the door of the tiny possible second bedroom – more of a boxroom really, “and – well, I could move this stuff. I don’t really know what it is anyway. You know how it is, you just – bring everything you own, dump it down, never get round to sorting it out.”

Jonathan nods, although he doesn't, he can’t really imagine why you wouldn’t leave it all with your parents – except he has enough friends who don’t speak to their parents anymore to guess.

“God knows what the bed is like,” Gethin goes on, “left by the guy before me, it was. Thought it might be useful one of these days, but – well. There it is.”

Jonathan almost says – but what about when your parents come up to see you – don’t you sleep in here then? Give them the big room? Then he remembers. Not everyone is as lucky as him.

“It’s great,” he says, and then, the big question, “how much?”

Gethin shrugs, turns away awkwardly.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, “doing a friend a favour – it’s not like I’m using it for anything else. You can pay some of the bills when they come in.”

Jonathan opens his mouth to protest, although actually, the way things are it would be very good indeed not to have to find rent money for a bit.

“Or you can watch the shop occasionally. Give me chance to catch up with stuff,” Gethin goes on, and he nods,

“Right, so, when can I move in? I tell you, Tim’ll be glad to see the back of me – cramping his style a bit, stuck on the sofa.”

“Yes well,” Gethin – stupidly – hasn’t thought that side of things through, “no worries with that. Though – I don’t know that bed will be up to much. You’d be better to – somewhere else for – that. But – move in when you want. Now, if you like,” he swallows, confused by his own confusion, but suddenly the thought of hearing through the wall those uninhibited sounds when he is alone – he dies a bit inside. Pulls himself together, not seeing the assessing flicker of eyes, and then – might as well do this properly, “I – I could sort something to eat while you get your bags – if you want?”

 

 

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

 

 

And of course, Gethin thinks afterwards, of course, it isn’t just a couple of bags, the taxi is full of bags and bundles and oh, I just went and grabbed this back from Peter, and I thought this that I knew James wanted rid of would cheer the place up, and you didn’t seem to have one of these and it was going cheap, and the overflowing – stuff – spreads Jonathan’s personality around the flat. And – he doesn't think much of Gethin’s cooking – too plain, apparently, too uninspired – and his music – too quiet, too restrained.

“Gethin Roberts,” he says, after three days, “you need to learn to cook – or – how about you let me do it? This is 1980, London, darling, not 1959 in darkest bloody Wales – they have fresh tomatoes in the shops now, even in December. And bloody pasta that isn’t in a tin.”

Gethin shrugs, and lets him. Jonathan seems to care, and enjoy food – so who is he to mind? 

But – darling?

Jonathan isn’t usually that camp.

“Fucks sake, Geth,” he is deliberately annoying, Gethin begins to suspect, “I’ve seen you party – what the hell is this crappy little tape deck? And bloody misery-tunes? Joy Division? The Cure? Really? Are you trying for the miserable grumpy goth bookseller stereotype award? ‘Cos in that case you need to paint your nails black, and up the makeup.”

Gethin shrugs, and watches as a record player takes up residence, and hopes the neighbours won’t mind when the volume goes up, and the music becomes more – loud – more – disco – and the cooking more fragrant.

And tells himself again – if you wanted to stay inconspicuous, you could have stayed in Wales.

But – Geth? 

No-one calls him that – no-one ever has. He’s always hated his name shortened.

Only – Jonathan just does.

And he doesn't mind. He really doesn't mind.


	5. Chapter 5

Actually, quick enough they find – it works.

No arguments over the bathroom – Jonathan isn’t up when Gethin leaves in the morning, Gethin is asleep when Jonathan gets home – no arguments over cleaning – Jonathan does the kitchen and Gethin does everywhere else – which he was doing anyway, and, to be honest, they’re both a bit slovenly, but that's ok. No arguments over shopping – Gethin does it, and then Jonathan goes off and buys all the interesting fun things that he forgets. No arguments over music – Jonathan plays his “tacky diso shit” when he’s cooking, or getting glammed up, Gethin plays his “music to slit your wrists to” much of the rest of the time; because honestly, Gethin can’t resist the happiness, the sexiness of disco, and Jonathan – there isn’t the music written that Jonathan can’t learn to love.

No arguments really.

Gethin wonders whether he is just too easy-going, whether this will all end in tears, as his mother would have said.

But – for now – it’s – nice.

First time Gethin brings someone home, he wonders how it will be – but turns out Jonathan knows him, so – breakfast is convivial, it being Sunday.

Bizarrely so.

After he’s gone – and it seems strange to realise he had a name, and a personality, outside of bed – after he’s gone, Jonathan turns to Gethin and asks,

“What are you doing for Christmas – I wasn’t planning on leaving until the 24th, so, if you need anything keeping an eye on – when does the shop close?”

“It’s retail,” Gethin says, then sees this means nothing, “5.30 on Christmas Eve. And open again day after Boxing Day. Not really the season for going far, for me.”

Not that he wants to anyway. No need to say it though.

Jonathan looks at him,

“So – who’re you seeing – Christmas lunch, all that?”

Gethin shrugs, closing down. But Jonathan is unstoppable,

“What do you do Christmas Day?”

Somehow, Gethin can’t think of a quick line. He shrugs again,

“It’s a good day to stocktake usually – end of the accounts year is 31st, see, so – nice quiet couple of days.”

The look which greets this, makes him shrug again, look down and then back, never show you care, never.

“I daresay there are people around – if I was bothered. Honestly, Jonathan, stop looking like it matters. It’s just a day. Just another bloody day.”

He turns away, quickly.

Because – it is only a day.

Not worth getting sentimental over.

As he tells himself every year.

 

 

&&&&&&&&&&&

 

 

Come Christmas Eve, and Gethin looks up in a lull – surprising how many people suddenly decide something overtly gay would make a perfect last minute present, he always thinks – to find coffee and a sandwich being pushed at him.

“Eat something, you’ve been on your feet all morning – Christ, Geth, you look knackered.”

He shrugs, it was a late night, a good night, and unlike some, he didn’t have the luxury of sleeping it off – but he doesn't say it.

After all, the proffered food – there is a mince pie too, he notices – is a kind thought.

“I’m supposed to be off soon, will you – are you sure you’ll be alright? There’s plenty of food in the fridge – left you some soup, risotto – even you should be able to warm that through without ruining it. Whisky. Or – I could phone, say plans change, stay. If you like.”

It’s another kind thought, he supposes afterwards, but at the time, Gethin’s hackles rise, he’s tired, hungry, busy, and the assumption of a right to care brings out the worst in him,

“I’m an adult, I think I can make my own damn decisions. I’ve been fine all the last ten years, thank you. Now bugger off back to the family mansion.”

Jonathan’s head jerks back a little, as though, Gethin thinks later, as though he has been slapped, and he blinks, nods, and turns away. Pauses charmingly at the shop door, and looks back with a beatific smile,

“Mock-Tudor stockbroker belt – Surrey-on-the-Thames, sweetie. No mansions here – don’t be deceived by the patiently acquired accent, my little Welsh firebrand,”

Accompanied by a flirtatious kiss of the hand.

Gethin could cheerfully strangle him, the patronising git, as though the difference between whatever he means by “Surrey stockbroker belt” and a mansion is anywhere near the disparity between it and what most workers have, and it isn’t personal, it isn’t, it’s purely political, he tells himself, knowing he lies – but all the companionable ease of the last few weeks is gone – only there are customers to be attended to, and the moment passes.

 

 

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

 

 

Walking into the flat later, it seems cold, and dark – stupid, he tells himself, it’s no colder and darker than it was five weeks ago. Or this time last year.

But the soup – soup made by someone else, for him, not out of a packet – is – cheering.

He doesn't let himself open the whisky.


	6. Chapter 6

Boxing Day early afternoon, he stretches, ticks off the last number, and smiles, with the quiet satisfaction of a job done well.

All in order, all as it should be, accounts tidied, almost ready for the end of year, books counted, no nasty surprises.

Peace and quiet.

He looks at his watch, ten to three, plenty of time to have a bath, something to eat, watch some rubbish on the tv, then think about going out. There were a couple of parties tonight – one of them might be worth a try.

Stands, turns off the lights, unlocks the shop door, locks it again, walks five yards, lets himself in and starts up the stairs to the flat.

Registers the lights on, the shoes kicked off, the coat flung down, the bag dropped, the music.

Oh.

Jonathan’s back then.

Feels his heart leap – and fights it down.

Don’t be silly, he tells himself, even as he starts smiling, it just means he got bored – wants to party tonight.

Remembers the way they parted, and wonders if they are even on speaking terms.

Sighs, and goes up the rest of the stairs.

 

 

But, of course, one thing about Jonathan – he is mercurial. He doesn’t bear grudges – doesn't have that in him. Up one minute, down the next – well, not physically, Gethin thinks, with a hot flash of memory – but state of mind. So, when he sees Gethin, he is full of excitement, because there is indeed a choice of parties to go to tonight, and he has had a good Christmas, and his parents are elderly but fine “so long as we all stick to the word actor, not homosexual” – his sisters “lovely”, their husbands “ranging from tolerant to slightly patronising” – and the children “delightfully mad”, and “best of all, it’s over for another year”. 

He looks at Gethin carefully, when Gethin is muttering about where will this picture go, and do they really need these wineglasses, and what on earth were Jonathan’s parents thinking to buy him that tie, and sees the tired eyes, and wonders. But he is learning not to ask questions – not to break this – whatever it is – that they are building. After all, that Gethin is appraising the things in a long-term way has to be a good sign, surely.

“Well,” he says, “you have time to go through them, sort them out, throw them away; I’m off again in three days, remember? Your flat is your own again, bar a few bags, and some post. I’ll leave the address-list with you – and this year, if I send you postcards, maybe you’ll send some back?”

Sees the instant tension, and curses in his mind. 

Shouldn’t have said that.

“Anyway,” he breezes on, grateful for professional skill, “did you like your present?”

Gethin looks at him blankly, then smiles, slightly forced, but it’s a smile, and Jonathan, as ever, cannot help but smile back,

“What? Two nights of peace and quiet? It was lovely, thank you.”

Frowning, Jonathan looks across, and yes, there under the tiny artificial tree that was the most concession to “aping societal norms” that he could wring from his – landlord, host, friend – is the package he placed there two days ago.

He sighs, and points,

“Not that it matters,” he says, “I just – thought you should have something to open. Only you didn’t.”

“I was busy, I said – it’s just another bloody day. Pointless consumerism. Opium of the masses, and all that.”

Jonathan flaps his hands, 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. You said. Many times. Now go and open your damn present, while I find out if you’ve managed to leave anything to eat in the fridge. If we’re going out tonight, we’d better think about dressing up soon.”

Gethin rolls his eyes in despair, and goes to see what the gift is.

 

 

Nothing extravagant, nothing particularly special. 

Just a music album, _Kings of the Wild Frontier_ , “because at least they look happy about their sodding makeup, not more misery”.

At least, Jonathan didn’t think it was that special, not special enough really, despite the time it took him to choose – being more of a disco-queen, these New Romantics all sound the same at first listen.

Only somehow, the thought that he bothered, and wrapped it, and left it here to be opened on Christmas Day – somehow that makes Gethin bite his lip again, and wish he hadn’t been quite so principled.

Maybe sometimes a little pointless consumerism is nice.

Maybe if he’d bothered, then the thought of Jonathan opening a gift from him, even a discreet, and most un-Jonathan-like one, as he supposes it would have to have been – it would have made yesterday a little less – forlorn.

 

 

Almost, Gethin says – let’s not go to either party. Let’s stay in. 

Almost he says – I missed you.

Almost he reaches out, touches, almost.

But that – that would be to lose this friendship, to waste it all for what? Sex? 

Easy enough to find sex elsewhere.

He used to think friendly sex was a good idea – he still does – only, somehow, not with Jonathan. Somehow, with Jonathan, the danger of – of entanglements looms. Somehow, with Jonathan a part of him he has ruthlessly suppressed, a Welsh sentimentality, a softness, a caving in to learnt expectations and roles, a craving for – for something he doesn't even want to name, comes to light. And today, after an unadmittedly lonely Christmas, today when he was so glad to see him, when it has felt so good not to be alone – today he knows he is vulnerable.

So he doesn't.

He lets the afternoon pass, in chat, and laughter, and Jonathan’s ridiculous jokes, he eats the food – and very good it is, much better than whatever he would have thrown together – and when the evening is at that point where they could settle down to a film, a night in or – not – he starts the debate as to which party will be better.

Dressing up – not that Gethin is one to dress up, not in the extravagant, over-the-top, marking night from day way which Jonathan does – is, somehow, more fun with two in the flat. Somehow – and a part of Gethin cringes slightly at the image – somehow with music on, with both of them needing the bathroom to shave, to style hair, to put on the make-up they both claim to wear ‘ironically’, both of them having a “oh fuck this isn’t vaguely wearable without emergency ironing” moment, both of them laughing about their soon-to-be-hosts, the getting ready becomes part of the event.

Both of them talking about what sort of boy they would like to pull tonight.

“Just – not a screamer, Geth,” Jonathan says, “unless you know I’m not coming home – please? That last one – I don’t know what you were doing to him – and I know he loved it – but Jesus, he was loud.”

Gethin looks down, looks away, grins, shrugs,

“Not my fault,” he says, and then their eyes meet, and, he can’t stop himself, “certainly didn’t have that effect on you.”

Jonathan raises an eyebrow, wickedness incarnate,

“Maybe if we were both nearer to sober – “

There’s a half question there, but Gethin pretends not to hear it, and Jonathan doesn’t push his luck. He sighs, and adds,

“And I had better not bring anyone too energetic. I don’t think your guest bed is up to overly enthusiastic fucking.”

Gethin doesn't wince at the thought of enthusiastic fucking – oh Christ Jesus – the thought of Jonathan being fucked as enthusiastically as those nights they were together – the thought of Jonathan’s mouth round another man’s cock – of hearing those unrestrained sounds of pleasure, which indeed were not screams, but weren’t quiet gasps either, hearing those through the wall while he is alone should the night not go as planned. He doesn't wince, he doesn't flinch, he doesn't show by even a flicker how sick he suddenly feels at the thought, how he wants to call off the whole outing.

He is quite proud of himself for that.

 

 

&&&&&&&&&&&&

 

 

It turns out to be a good party, not too many faces they know, and although Gethin is aware he has to get up, open the shop tomorrow, he still has no need to hurry home, still finds what he is looking for.

Someone pretty and willing, and not wanting to stay the night. 

And, when he wakes alone, when he gets up and dresses, and by habit moves quietly around the flat, he doesn’t feel any kind of pang when he sees the boxroom door left open, as it was when they went out, the bed unslept in.

He doesn't.

He really doesn't.


	7. Chapter 7

All the same, he can’t stop himself smiling and feeling better when coffee arrives midmorning, and laugh, and chat – it’s not a busy day, not many customers, so a little light gossip dissecting the party is just what’s required.

Until Simon – it’s always Simon – comes in, smirks meaningfully, waits until Jonathan wanders off to refill mugs, and then leans himself on the counter,

“Well, sweetie, I think there’s a story here, isn’t there, little miss played-my-cards-cleverly? Oh no, don’t you look away and go all shy on me – come on, sweetie, spill the beans.”

Terrified Jonathan will come back, will overhear, will think – Dewi Sant, what will he think – Gethin hears himself once again, clipped, angry, Welsh to the core,

“No story, no gossip, and I’ll thank you to be minding your own business, Simon Lewis.”

But Simon is immune to snubs – he would have to be, Gethin reminds himself, he lives with James now,

“Sweetie, really. Tell auntie all about it – living together, arriving at parties together,” one party, Gethin thinks, one party which you weren’t at, Jesus, this place is worse than a village, “leaving with other people – well, we’ve all done that, sweetie, but then this morning there you are, all cosied up together again. Very modern. That’s what it takes to keep hold of Jonathan footloose Blake, is it? Aren’t you the clever girl to work it out?”

Gethin draws breath, prepared to lose this customer, prepared to scare off the doubting boy in the corner trying to find his courage, but before he can speak there is a hand on his shoulder, and warm laughter dispelling the claustrophobia,

“Oh Simon, don’t be ridiculous. You don’t know Geth half as well as you think you do. He hasn’t come all the way from the Valleys,” not the Valleys you fool, you – Englishman – Gethin thinks, unreasonably angry at his friend, “just for one man. No, there’s all of London out there to be seduced, isn’t that right?”

Gethin sighs, but the tone is right, not overly angry, not smacking of denial, just – weary.

“Honestly,” Jonathan continues, “quite apart from the insult to me – do you really think I’d settle for someone so _sensible_ – you should know better. Anyway, I’d offer to show you the two bedrooms upstairs, but I think you know as well as I do what Jealous James would make of that. Now, run along and play – unless you actually wanted something?”

Which, of course, has Simon pouting, and buying something he never intended to prove himself a bona fide customer, and leaving with false smiles, and air-kisses all round.

“I’m sorry,” Jonathan says after he is gone, “I should have been nicer. He’ll carry that – whatever he made of it – all round town.”

Gethin shrugs,

“You’re off in a couple of days, makes no odds. Anyone daft enough to believe it – well, I may find myself rather sought after. I imagine there’s a few out there would like the idea of poaching on your territory.”

Jonathan pulls a mock-innocent face, and they laugh, united.

Later Gethin wonders about the word “sensible”.

But honestly, he is sensible. However much he might try and hide it, might try and dress up, go out, play the boy-about-town, he always knows how much he has drunk, always knows where his wallet is, is always home in time to be competent the next morning – always keeps himself out of jealous spats, and angry vicious pairings. Always pays his bills on time, does his accounts, pays his tax.

The word, and the tone, shouldn’t hurt.

And it doesn't.

It really doesn't.

 

 

&&&&&&&&&&&&&

 

 

The following day Jonathan is packing, or so he calls it.

Throwing everything he owns into a heap and jumping on it, is what it sounds like to Gethin, but who is he to judge. 

Or indeed, care.

Finally, he comes out, and announces it done, hands over a list of dates, addresses, contacts with a flourish, and then,

“Come dancing, Geth, come out dancing with me. Not on the pull, not as anything – difficult – just come dancing?”

For a moment, Gethin wants to refuse, wants to plead early start tomorrow, things to do, not a good idea, but that word “sensible” rings through his head again, and he finds himself nodding, agreeing, changing – and somehow, somehow, although they are both agreed they are not available tonight but not together, somehow it matters, it really matters that he should look his best.

And, he is not quite sure why, the cosy, in and out of each other’s rooms, borrowing accessories, atmosphere of the other night is gone.

The bathroom door is kept shut.

But, when they leave, it is as it always is, friends, laughing, being silly, not touching, or rather, not touching in any meaningful way. An easy arm, a hand, and, as the night goes on, a bit more.

Because, after all, whatever else, Jonathan is magic to dance with.

Gethin isn’t one to be overly confident on the dance-floor. Not that he feels awkward, or shy, or anything so pathetic, just – he knows his limits.

Only with Jonathan – there are no limits. 

He flaunts everything he has, and indeed, much he doesn't have, he is loud, and exuberant, and looks amazing, even when, actually, he is ridiculous – and his joy carries Gethin with him.

It doesn't mean anything, it is just friends, he tells himself. 

Just good friends, even when Jonathan presses against his back, hands holding him close, bodies moving together without even thinking, the music so loud, so compelling. The height difference is good, really good, the feel of Jonathan grinding into him is wonderful suddenly – surprisingly, Gethin not being one to relish giving up hard-won control.

But they are friends, so – it’s just the music, the atmosphere, the drink. It isn’t lust, this hardness he can feel, this pulsing need, no. At least, not lust for each other, just generalised male lust.

And he almost believes it. 

Until at the end of the evening, the obligatory slow song comes on, and Gethin suddenly realises they are dancing together, that he is held close, that his cheek is pressed to Jonathan’s undeniably sweaty – undeniably wonderful – chest, his arms round Jonathan’s neck, Jonathan’s head resting on his hair. That he has only to look up, to blink, to, were he that sort, flutter eyelashes, and doubtless sex would happen.

In fact, by the feel of things, sex might very well be on the cards anyway.

And, at that thought, Gethin finds himself – eager.

Leaving the club, they don’t talk about it, about what is going to happen, what it might mean. They don’t really talk much at all, beyond commonplace – tube or taxi – which station – walk from here – your key or mine – but they laugh, and they smile, and their hands brush, their paces match, in a way which says – yes.

At the top of the stairs, where they would usually part, somehow Gethin manages to stumble, and finds himself caught, and held, and – and this is too corny, but – but in turning to pull away, to stand on his own he finds instead they are too close, too near, and that Jonathan’s eyes are asking, offering, wanting, Jonathan’s mouth looks so inviting, so warm, and then – then without thinking it through, without being sensible, kissing happens, and walking backwards, because drunk he may be, but stupid enough to spend the night on his own very substandard guest bed, he isn’t.

 

 

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

 

Afterwards, Gethin lies with his head on Jonathan’s chest again, listening to his heart, feeling his hair stroked, petted.

Feeling he should object, should protest, should say something cutting and witty.

Only – he doesn’t want to.

He really doesn't.


	8. Chapter 8

Waking just before the alarm, Gethin gets up, carefully, quietly, not wanting to wake Jonathan – he has a long enough day as it is, travelling, first night tonight.

Shit.

This was bad timing, he can’t help think.

Makes himself coffee, makes one to leave by the bed, scrabbles through the papers he keeps in the kitchen for the list of addresses. It’ll be a slow day today. Maybe he can manage to write, to make sense of the way he feels, of what happened, get a letter in the post, surprise Jonathan tomorrow. Even – and he is being ridiculous himself now – even see if any of the towns are close enough to get out to for a day. 

A night. Breathless at the thought, at the memory.

Takes Jonathan’s coffee through, can’t help himself, has to just – reach down and touch the hair, kiss gently, try not to wake, but see that bleary peering face and nod, and give a small, unsure smile,

“Habit we don’t seem able to break,” he says, and then, “da iawn.”

Accepts the grunt and mumble as acknowledgment, lets himself out of the flat.

Doesn't realise he spoke in Welsh, that it means nothing to Jonathan. Sounds like swearing, sounds like regret.

Doesn't realise the letter from last February has been among all the other papers, gathering dust all this time, and is now on the kitchen surface.

Next to the kettle.

Where even Jonathan can’t fail to see it.

 

 

 

After what would be lunch-hour, if Gethin ever took a lunch-hour, the shop falls quiet, a lull, as happens. He takes advantage of it to shut, puts up the five minutes sign, and lets himself in, not sure what he hopes for, not sure what time Jonathan was supposed to be leaving, not sure what kind of greeting to prepare, not sure about anything except – he wants to see him.

Would rather like to hold, and be held.

The lights are off, the flat cold and dark, and silent.

The bags gone, the boxroom door half-open, the bed stripped down, just some boxes piled neatly.

Gethin doesn't understand.

The more he looks around, the more he sees missing.

The more bare and dull the flat feels.

Goes into the kitchen, still searching for some explanation, something to make sense of this.

Sees the letter – his letter.

Reads the scrawl under his own name.

 

_Message received and understood._

_Sorry._

_Won’t happen again._

_Have left place tidy, will phone Simon to pick up stuff. Am sure he will enjoy the drama._

_**J.** _

 

And the key, left there.

 

 

For a long moment, Gethin stands and stares, not quite understanding.

“Oh Fuck,” he says, quietly, and puts his hand over his mouth, holds the emotion in, blinks as his whole body slumps.

Then he remembers the contact list, and runs back down the stairs, slams the door, scrambles into the shop, finds it.

Looks at the number for today, looks at the time, wonders whether it is worth trying.

Has to be.

Dials, flapping away a customer.

Waits.

Not there yet.

Yes, of course, urgent message, quite understood, will ask Mr Blake to phone immediately he arrives, this number or this one, yes, quite. 

Hangs up.

Sits and waits.

Watching the phone all afternoon.

Going home, watching the phone in the flat as it gets colder and darker, not finding the energy to switch a light on, to cook, to do anything.

Hearing someone at the door, knowing it will be Simon, not having the energy, ignoring him.

Waiting.

Realising Jonathan will be on stage now.

Waiting.

Eventually, the phone rings.

Picking up, searching for words.

“Jonathan I didn’t – I wrote that before – please –“

“Sweetie, sweetie, save it, it’s only me. Just thought I should make sure all was well – but it obviously isn’t – only I tried to come round, but no-one there or at the shop, which seemed odd.”

Gethin has nothing to say to Simon.

“Sweetie, would you like me to come and keep you company? If you’re waiting for a call? Make you tea?”

It is doubtless meant kindly, but all Gethin wants is to get him off the phone. Simon realises, and goes, promises to pop round tomorrow. Gethin wonders idly whether he ever does any work.

Sits and waits, wondering if Jonathan tried, and found the line engaged, and won’t bother again. Wonders about phoning again himself.

Tells himself he is being ridiculous.

Waits.

Feels himself falling asleep, shifts uneasily, knows he should go to bed, waits for a bit longer, just a bit longer.

Phone rings.

“Jonathan?”

This time he waits to be sure, but it is, and he wants so much to say – something – to make everything right, only,

“Gethin,” and never has he wanted to hear his name shortened so much, “Gethin, I’m sorry. I know you didn’t want that, I – it was only sex, and not the first time. Nothing that hasn’t happened before,” only it was, it was, wasn’t it? I thought it was, “Surely we can agree to forget it, to go back to friends?”

There is laughter in the background, people around, Jonathan sounds impatient, and busy, and maybe all of it was only music and drink, and, yes, just ordinary lust.

Gethin doesn't have the courage.

“Yes,” he says, quietly, and then, “yes, and – you don’t need to have Simon move all your things – where’s he going to put them anyway? You – you’ll still need somewhere, after this, when you’re back in London. Come here again. It – it worked. Didn’t it?”

Waits, and it seems like forever.

“Yes, yes, if that's what you want. I – just as friends. I know that. Understood.”

And now, now would be the moment to say it, to say, no, I thought that before, but, but actually, I do, maybe, could we, try perhaps.

But Gethin can’t quite do it.

Not on a phone, not like this.

Not without any encouragement, any hint it would be welcome.

Not with all those other people half-listening, able to hear Jonathan’s laughing brush-off.

Besides, friends is good.

Anything more doesn't make sense.

It doesn't.

It really doesn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> da iawn - very good.


	9. Chapter 9

Simon, as promised, turns up next day, but he is subdued, and, for a moment, Gethin almost likes him.

“You don’t want to be storing all this crap,” he says, and shrugs, “it was nothing – Jonathan overreacted – you know what he’s like. It can all stay here. Besides, a couple of months, he’ll be back.”

Simon manages a raised eyebrow, and Gethin adds,

“Christ knows, I couldn’t stand him all the time, but for a few weeks – it’s ok,” before he can’t help himself – and silently he blames his mother’s teaching, “are you – has something happened?”

He expects to hear a list of James-related grievances, or, possibly, to receive a scolding for not taking care of Jonathan, not valuing him, and is already rehearsing the slightly painful reiteration of “we’re just friends, I don’t do relationships”, adding in his own mind, “and he thinks I’m sensible, translates as dull, he only fancies me when he’s drunk”. But instead, Simon looks down, and then,

“No, it’s nothing – just – oh, James is away, seeing his family, and,” he sighs, “I know, I know, I’m not really presentable as a friend – raises too many questions – I never was good at passing for straight – but. Oh, I’m being silly. Just sometimes – him and Jonathan, and Pete, and some – they go on about elderly parents, tiresome, all the rest of it, but – I’d like the option of going to bloody Watford to see mine.”

Gethin looks down, sees his hands, clenched, because, yes, he knows that feeling rather too well, looks back at Simon, and sees a determined effort being made, sees him pull himself together, nail that smile back on, straighten his back, and,

“Anyway. I shouldn’t stand and gossip,” why break the habit of a lifetime, Gethin wonders, but doesn't say it, and Simon goes on, in his most high camp manner, “James’ home tonight, so I’d better hide _all_ the evidence of enjoying myself without him. Take care, sweetie, and – if you write to Jonathan, tell him I can’t wait to see him again soon.”

He sashays out, and Gethin looks after him, wondering at such a subtle reminder. Yes, indeed, he could write.

Surely a few words on paper wouldn’t be so difficult?

After all, he is surrounded by words all day. How hard can it be?

 

 

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

 

 

Very, it turns out over the next few days. 

Very difficult indeed to find any words to write. Even just a simple – how are you, hope things are going ok, London is still here – letter between friends, is, it seems, almost impossible.

Between the words are all the spaces he doesn't know how to fill. 

For an instant, he wonders if a more heartfelt, more truthful letter would be easier. He tries to imagine it.

_Dear Jonathan,_

_I miss you. The flat is cold and dark, and lonely. I miss laughter, I miss your singing, I miss the mess you make. I miss being woken when you come in late, and think you are silent, but really you are just too drunk to notice. I miss your cooking, even though I don’t have to clear up. I miss your appalling music, even though I can play my own. I miss your smile, and the coffee you bring me midmorning when you get up. I miss the gossip you bring back to share with me. I miss you._

_This is stupid. You’ve only been there for six weeks, only been gone days, but I miss you._

_I wish I had said I like the way you call me Geth. I like you calling me darling. I like dancing with you, very, very much. I like living with you, even though you annoy me sometimes, and I know I annoy you. It’s worth it._

_I like sleeping with you, I like how you hold me, how you don’t want to let go in the morning, how you roll over and hide from the light. I’d like to sleep together more._

_I think you know I like sex with you. I don’t think you know how much._

_Even when you bloody start singing, or pissing about, or laughing._

_I don’t know if I can trust you to be faithful, I don’t know if you can trust me. I don’t know if it matters. I don’t know if the arguments we have will get worse and hurt. I don’t know if we could end up one of those awful couples who tear each other apart, or, almost worse, one of those couples who only exist as a pair. I don’t know what a good marriage looks like, I certainly don’t know how two men could make out together. I don’t know how much of this is real, and how much just society’s delusion that I’m buying into._

_But I know I miss you, I know I like being with you, I like the way I am with you, and the way we are together. I think maybe, maybe this is what love is, for someone like me, not hearts and flowers, and romance, but the way we’ve been recently._

_I know I want to try._

_Only I’m too afraid to say it, too afraid of losing what I have, my friend._

Even in his thoughts, he can’t quite bring himself to say those three words, to ask for what he, maybe, wants. 

Gethin sighs, and ploughs on with the other letter, the reminder that real life is here, as Jonathan put it last year, and wonders if there will be any answer.

 

 

&&&&&&&&&&&

 

He waits, wondering if he sent it to the wrong place, got the timings wrong. 

If Jonathan is fed up with him.

If he was foolish to turn down the offers of New Year’s Eve parties, to not be out there making the most of every opportunity.

If Jonathan would ever, ever do the same.

If none of it really meant anything at all.

If he is being completely ridiculous.

If he will ever sleep properly again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .
> 
> In British English "pissing about" = playing about, being silly  
> & "make out" = in this context, get along, make a relationship work.  
>  It suddenly occurred to me, I don't know if that is the same elsewhere......


	10. Chapter 10

**1981**

 

A postcard comes, finally.

The town is several down the list from the one he wrote to, and he can’t help but remember how last year the cards came every week, at least. 

Still. 

Better than nothing, he tells himself.

_Glad all well,_ it says, _see you soon. **J.**_

Soon? He thinks, but – you aren’t back for another six weeks. 

Perhaps he should have tried to write the other letter.

Reminds himself he never wanted any of this. He has a lot of other things; he is healthy, attractive, solvent, employed, and, he supposes he should count this as a blessing, living in a town full of gorgeous men, many of whom he hasn’t yet fucked.

Time to get out there again, he supposes.

 

 

&&&&&&&&&&

 

 

The weeks pass.

Work, and chat, and gossip, and nights out, and nameless sex, and political discussions, a healthy bank balance, and a home to yourself.

Everything you ever wanted from life, Gethin reminds himself.

You aren’t some simpering would-be princess, to want a ring on your finger, and shit, if even someone as heavily supported by all the ancient statutes as the fucking heir to the throne can’t pretend to sound enthusiastic about marriage, and love, then what the bloody hell do you think it has to do with you?

No. Let those who want play that game – Simon seems to get something from it, though increasingly Gethin watches him and James arrive at parties barely speaking, leave clearly furious, and snipe and bitch all through, and wonders what – but he is more honest than that. Fidelity, monogamy, all that romantic shit – no. For girls, maybe, but not for him.

So he tells himself.

No more postcards arrive, although, to be fair, Gethin reminds himself, he hasn’t written again.

He doesn’t have the courage to phone either.

He just watches the date, and waits.

 

 

&&&&&&&&&&&&

 

 

Despite that, somehow he is almost taken by surprise when the shop door opens, and he looks up from crouching on the floor, filling the lowest shelf, to see Jonathan stood there.

Gethin blinks, and there is an uncertain moment when neither of them know quite what to say.

Where is Simon when you need him, Gethin wonders, and registers as he does that actually, he hasn’t seen him here for nearly two months now.

Mind back to the present, he stands, and manages a rather uncertain,

“Hello,” which, he tells himself, is truly pathetic.

Jonathan visibly pulls on his persona, his professional manner, and walks forward, arm out, 

“Hello yourself,” he says, and then – then there is a hug, and Gethin wonders if perhaps, perhaps it will all be as simple as that, but he is held at arms’ length as Jonathan goes on, “you did say there was still space in the flat? Or I can just collect bits and go, Ricky has a flatshare – space for one more you said, didn’t you, gorgeous? Have you met Ricky, Gethin? He’s been the Buttons to my Dame – isn’t he lovely?”

And no, no actually, Gethin hasn’t met the lovely Ricky, and right now, Gethin could cheerfully throttle Ricky, but that would be wrong, and not good for business, and so, hello Ricky, well, of course Jonathan, it’s up to you, the space is there if you want it, but no, I quite understand if you’d rather not.

Actually, it turns out that Ricky’s flatmates, while ready of course to make space for a homeless boyfriend, would probably rather not squeeze in another person if it isn’t really necessary, and while its lovely to meet Gethin, he should probably be going home himself now, just check it’s all still there and so on, and so see you later, darling, and big kiss to keep him going, after all it’ll be hours now, and a completely excessive amount of groping is apparently needed also, and off he goes.

Gethin wishes there were customers. Why are there never customers when you need them?

As it is, there is really no excuse not to shut the shop for five minutes, let Jonathan in, find him his key, try not to look at the love-bites on his neck, not to notice he has a swagger in his walk that wasn’t there before, not to react to the smell of Ricky’s cologne on him, and, above all, not to throw himself at him, and start trying to find the words he doesn't have for please, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean no, I missed you so much, I want you.

I think I might love you.

Only you, you seem to have found yourself someone else to have fun with – and if you could do that so quickly, then perhaps none of it meant what I hoped, none of it was real, it was only ever in my mind that you seemed to care.

“I’d better go back to the shop,” he says, instead, and then, “I – there’s food in, but I daresay it’s simplest if we don’t arrange anything definite; you’ll be seeing Ricky. Just,” he shrugs, looking down, “unpack your stuff again,” and he turns away, heads off back down the stairs, not looking back, not seeing Jonathan slump, not hearing him sigh.

 

 

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

 

As it turns out, Ricky doesn't last long.

“He’s got no conversation, he doesn't dance without rehearsing, he wears too much cologne.”

Nor does Tony.

“He doesn’t laugh at my jokes.”

Nor Terry.

“He’s too serious.”

Nor Dan.

“He just fucked off.”

Nor Steve.

“I don’t know, I got bored.”

Gethin doesn't ask about all the one-nights, the ones he doesn't even meet, the ones who don’t make it even to anecdote stage.

 

 

&&&&&&&&&&&

 

As for his own sex-life – Jonathan remains apparently impervious to embarrassment, sharing breakfast on Sundays with whoever Gethin has brought home the night before, if he stays, or Gethin alone if not.

Brunch, it is now, apparently. The new word for a late breakfast which counts as lunch as well.

Very modern, very 80s.

If Jonathan notices Gethin never sleeps with anyone twice, he doesn’t comment. 

He doesn't comment on how rare it is for Gethin to sleep with anyone, or even get laid at all.

Gethin assumes he hasn’t worked out why.

He hopes not.

Because the reason is too embarrassing for words.

They none of them match up. Not one man in London.

Not one in the world, Gethin suspects.

Or rather, there is only one in London, only one in the world, that he wants. And he can’t have him, because of some stupid mistakes, because he is a coward, because – above all, because he isn’t wanted in return.

Still, he tells himself, at the moment he has what no-one else has. He has Jonathan here, in his flat, his friend.

Surely that means more than sex?

But there are moments, when the guest bed creaks, when he hears a particular stifled cry, that he thinks it doesn't.

It really doesn't.

 

 

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

 

 

Petty jealousies aside – and it is petty, it’s silly, it’s not the person Gethin wants to be, so he tries to put them aside, or at least act as though he has – the flat share is still wonderful.

Wonderful even when Jonathan persuades him to host a Eurovision party, and decides the winning group are “so kitsch it’s not true”, and for weeks Gethin lives with the background of Making Your Mind Up, to the point where he longs for the classy days of Abba.

Wonderful even when Jonathan reveals himself to be on no electoral register anywhere, because “what’s the point, Geth, whoever you vote for politicians get in; all your rallying, all your belief – the GLC won’t change anything. Votes for newts maybe”, and that – that might be the one thing Gethin can’t forgive, apathy. Except apathy isn’t quite the word for someone who loves protests, marches, shouting, even if more for the sake of anarchy, of the passion driving everyone else, than for the politics of it. 

Oh, he comes to Pride again, he even starts off with the GLF group, same as Gethin, but – well, walking at the same pace isn’t something that comes naturally to them, Gethin supposes, in any way. Still, it’s Gethin who he phones, beyond late that night, from a police station. Gethin who sighs, and goes out again, and stands at the counter and asks what evidence there is, what proof, is there any good reason for Jonathan to be in custody? 

And there isn’t. So it’s Gethin who takes him home, pays for the taxi, because he is so done with walking or tube at this time of night, so unimpressed by Jonathan.

“Christ Jesus,” he says, “I thought you were the one with the expensive fucking education. Don’t you even know your rights? Police harassment? How many years have you been on marches?” and goes through it again, threatening to set it to a bloody disco beat and make Jonathan learn the things to say if he ever has to get up at two in the fucking morning again.

“Just be glad I wasn’t – busy enjoying myself, or someone else,” he adds, and turns away before he sees the slightly wistful look in Jonathan’s eye.

Wonderful even through the heat of summer, the riots, the lack of concern on Jonathan’s part – and how can he not care, how can none of it touch him? But he doesn't. 

And Gethin can’t bring himself to be as angry as he should, because it’s Jonathan, and sharing the flat is wonderful.

The Royal Wedding happens, and the pageantry, the money, the waste and excess annoys Gethin. This time it is Jonathan who has to be patient, and understanding, and not show his suspicion that all this anger has as much to do with inherited dislike of any Englishman calling himself Prince of Wales, with a loathing of his own suppressed craving for fairy tale happiness, than with socialism, republicanism and a desire to see the whole institution of marriage reformed.

Sharing the flat is wonderful, even the occasional confused phonecalls from Jonathan’s parents make him laugh, “Geth, I’m sorry, but they mean it kindly, they genuinely don’t understand why such a nice man with his own business isn’t married with children - you’re not like me, a ‘Bohemian artist type’”, and somehow, somehow the very gentleness with which Jonathan smiles as he says it shows that, yes, his parents don’t understand, and don’t welcome his honesty, but that a compromise has been reached over the years. And Gethin can only be happy for him, remembering his and Simon’s shared envy last Christmas.

As for Jonathan’s sisters – they have their own degrees of compromise, of understanding, but still, they become voices known to Gethin on the phone, and he enters into the long debates as to which book is the right choice for the various nephews’ and nieces’ birthdays. When the dutiful thank-you-letters are lit with a certain real enthusiasm, Gethin wonders, fleetingly, if an ordinary bookshop would be fun, would have these moments when you know you have passed on a love of something that made the lonely hours of childhood, of adolescence, less painful.

Sharing the flat is wonderful, for all the arguments, and adjustments, and lack of peace.

He almost catches himself using the word to Simon, and from the look he receives, it’s his thought which is heard.

“Really, sweetie? So all that – misunderstanding – over New Year was sorted out was it? Ricky rolled off somewhere?”

Gethin shrugs.

“Obviously,” he says, closing down again, remembering why he doesn’t always like Simon, “but it isn’t like that. We’re friends. I don’t do relationships.”

Simon nods,

“Keep saying it, sweetie. You never know, I might even believe you one of these days. Especially if you learn not to blush.” He winks, and heads for the door, holds it open for Jonathan, armed with coffee, “hello Lovely, just talking about you. Isn’t he pretty when he blushes? See you soon sweeties, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do – or anyone,” and he waves, and off he goes.

Gethin sighs, and manages to meet Jonathan’s eye, sharing exasperation.

“Now what, I wonder, would that exclude?” Jonathan says, wryly, and adds, “or who? And no, you aren’t pretty when you blush.”

No more than usual, he is tempted to add.

Gethin ignores the sting; after all, he knows he isn’t attractive to Jonathan, that has become very clear this year. 1981 is not as much fun as he hoped once it might be. “Work, I think,” he says, slightly cruelly, “I never knew Simon do anything much.”

Jonathan blinks, and Gethin remembers it’s been a while since there was a lot going on in his life work-wise. 1981 isn’t a good year to be a fringe actor. In fact, since the Sweatshop closed down, there’s been a decided lack of work. Funding cuts are beginning to bite, there isn’t spare money in many budgets for sponsoring experimental theatre, or for watching it, supporting it – “only for cutesy fucking musicals about Cats, God help us”. Truth be told, Jonathan has been more glad than ever of the odd day in the shop, not just because it pays the rent, but because he is, whisper it, bored. Beginning to wonder if perhaps there is something in what his eldest sister’s husband has started hinting about it being time to get a proper job. Only he can’t, offhand, think of one he is qualified for. 

Gethin doesn't know all this, of course, it isn’t something they’ve talked about. At least, officially Gethin doesn't know. Gethin being Gethin, and not a fool, he is aware of how little work is coming Jonathan’s way, aware of how much time he has to spare, or spends doing favours for people – painting, sewing, costumes for parties, quick-fix make a flat feel like home. Gethin being Gethin, he may not aspire to riches, he may be opposed to the entire capitalist system, but he is damn good at working within it, and has ideas as to which of Jonathan’s skills are marketable, and how. 

Ideas he has discussed, briefly, with the nicest, most chatty sister, the youngest. She laughed, and wished him luck with his persuasion in a way that convinced him to leave it a while.

He wonders how to apologise, how to explain he didn’t mean it like that, without making it worse.

“About that,” Jonathan says before he can begin to try, “panto again. But, and I don’t know if this is good news or bad, no tour. Got a run over in bloody Clapham, of all places, so I’ll be under your feet all January.”

Gethin smiles.

“And, while I’m breaking bad news,” Jonathan goes on, “Christmas. My parents, for some reason which makes sense only to their senilic elderly minds, have decided to go on a cruise this year. With some godawful senilic elderly friends, would you believe it? Irony is, it’s one I actually know someone on the entertainment staff – apparently they’re nearly all queer, it’s all one big piss-up, mass orgies after the show. I suppose I should just be grateful I didn’t get that job – I can’t think of anything more off-putting than the aged parents in the audience.”

I didn’t even know you looked at cruise-work, Gethin thinks, ignoring the obvious joke, you’d have been away for – months. And feels slightly sick.

“Anyway, other people’s gay children being so much more entertaining than one’s own, and my sisters being committed to in-laws this year – well, do you need help with your seasonal stocktake?”

That was unexpected, Gethin thinks, and reminds himself to smile, not look panicked, and say something halfway intelligent, and sympathise about the parent situation, and finds himself reluctantly agreeing with Simon – some bastards don’t know how lucky they are when they complain. But even that sore place counts for nothing beside the chiming bells of jubilation, the hallelujah chorus of “Jonathan’s going to be here for Christmas! And he’s not going away on tour!”

Not that it changes anything, of course.

They’re still just friends.

Still both going out on the tiles.

Which is how it ought to be.


	11. Chapter 11

Jonathan in the weeks before Christmas is almost a different person. He has a job – which means rehearsals, and getting up, and being organised, and a certain amount of wandering about learning lines and songs, and then, once the run starts, means he isn’t around in the evenings. Some of their friends go to the first night, take over a block of the seats, shout and whistle and catcall, come back enthusiastic and full of laughter, and drink and play music until well after Gethin would prefer to be asleep. Because, he thinks ruefully, he is sensible, and he has a sensible job, and he has to be up to prep the shop.

But it’s good to see Jonathan happy, and good to have people over, so Gethin doesn't complain. Besides, for all that Jonathan is busy, he still makes time to come into the shop with coffee, chat, remind Gethin to eat something, even, sometimes, keep an eye on the till if Gethin needs to pop out, although they are both happier when that can be avoided. He’s wonderful with customers, hopeless with anything technical. All too often Gethin will come back and find a scribbled list of books, a pile of cash, and an apology –“they didn’t mind, we rounded it up, I gave them close enough to the right change”. He can only be grateful books are still cheap enough people pay in cash. The thought of Jonathan trying to deal with credit cards is not pleasant.

Still. Since Gethin doesn't pay him, he can hardly complain. 

They have both forgotten the nominal rent. Because friends don’t charge friends rent when one can’t afford it and the other doesn't need it.

In the weeks before Christmas, not only is Jonathan suddenly organised, and busy, he has money, and Gethin finds various things appearing round the flat – things he has vaguely mentioned as would be nice to have, but hasn’t had the cash or inclination to buy. It’s strange, but nice. Because it feels like Jonathan considers this home now, not just a stop-gap, a place to crash.

Home.

Not a word Gethin has used much for a long while, but suddenly he finds he can, and he does, and it feels good.

In the weeks before Christmas, Jonathan insists on long debates over presents. For his sisters, their children, although not their husbands –“I never bother, just a bottle of whisky each. Send a cheque to the girls, they’ll buy it for me. Christ, Geth, they’re pleasant enough, but so, so straight. I wouldn’t know where to bloody start,” – and Gethin mutters about even straight men can read, buy them books, you could try treating them like humans, they might return the favour. Jonathan looks at him thoughtfully, but ignores him.

This year.

Still, there are long debates over the children’s presents – more books, because the birthday ones seemed to go quite well, and they’re easy to post, and the sisters’ – involving long descriptions of various material, and in the end purchases, and modelling, and questioning, and really, Gethin doesn't care, he’s only met one of these women, and he can’t really remember what she looked like, but Jonathan loves the whole drama of it all. And the parading up and down is entertaining. So in the end, scarves, hats, jewellery, posh tights are packaged up and posted – and Gethin can’t help smiling at the thought of them being received, and pictures Jonathan’s sisters, of whom he has seen photos, opening them in front of in-laws, and knowing their brother has tried them in front of his mirror “to be sure they are lovely enough”, and the kids will know, and indeed, the husbands, and they will all smile simply to think of flamboyant, generous Jonathan.

At least, so Gethin imagines. He doesn't know, but he hopes so. It seems that way, from the letters, and phonecalls that seem to cross and recross the country between these siblings, even if they don’t manage to meet too often. 

“I did say, didn’t I,” Jonathan starts, “they’re coming to the show – last day before they go back to school – all of them. Lunch, then the afternoon I’ve managed to get out of the matinee, so we’ll take the kids somewhere improving – too cold for the zoo I suppose, probably a museum – and then the evening show. Should be fun. You want to come?”

Only no, of course not, don’t be ridiculous, Gethin says, the prospect terrifying. “Some of us have bloody jobs, you know,” he adds, and shuts his mouth on the real reason. They might think I’m your boyfriend. And I’m not, we aren’t. 

Jonathan nods, 

“Forgot, sorry Geth,” he says, “but – I said come here, meet here, that’s ok isn’t it?”

Gethin shrugs, of course it is, it’s your home, and turns away. Doesn’t see Jonathan’s very slight slump, doesn't hear the sigh.

In the weeks before Christmas, only once does Jonathan make a mistake,

“You bought presents yet?” he asks, slightly hurt that he hasn’t been consulted at all, “sent them? What about friends?”

Gethin looks at him and the derision is cutting,

“Crass materialism,” he says, “pointless consumerism, religious crap. I don’t do Christmas presents.”

Jonathan shrugs,

“That works for friends,” he says, even though there is a slight sting, “but not family – you must have some family?”

Gethin looks away,

“Not that want anything I could send,” he says, quietly, and walks away, conversation closed.

Jonathan winces.

 

 

&&&&&&&&&&&&

 

 

Shutting the shop on Christmas Eve, going back to the flat, just as though it’s an ordinary day feels a bit – empty – as it always does, for a moment.

But, this year, only for a moment.

Because there is music on, loud and happy, there is something cooking which smells wonderful – as food usually does these days, unless there is a Ricky, or a Tony, or a whoever to distract Jonathan and Gethin is reduced to cooking for himself again. Only that hasn’t happened for months now; Jonathan has been staggering home alone, smelling of sex, but alone. No affairettes for ages, he suddenly realises, and wonders why. 

Anyway. Right now, there is music, and light, and warmth, and food, and – and something he can’t quite believe on the table in the living room.

“What?” he starts, but before he can get further, Jonathan is there, and,

“You can’t possibly make toffee – or taffy – or whatever it’s called without an apron. And you don’t have an apron, because you are in fact the world’s worst cook, so I bought you one.”

It’s dreadful. 

It’s glitzy, and glittery, and shimmery, and lacy, an apron for a drag queen, the most ridiculous apron it is possible to imagine, and there is no way on God’s green earth that Gethin is wearing it.

And then he hears what Jonathan just said, and he looks at him.

“I – is that not right? All the rest of it just seemed a bit – mad, frankly, but if you feel the need to have three hours of church singing tomorrow morning, I suppose that can be arranged – and a fruit cake is a fruit cake, I don’t honestly think Wales can claim that to be their own special tradition – but toffee-making tonight – that seemed like a good idea. Makes a change from the usual “let’s sit round and edit the truth enough to have a happy family meal” game for me.”

Gethin just stands there.

Even Jonathan is looking a bit worried now.

“Toffee – taffy – oh shit, does that sound like I’m taking the piss? I didn’t mean it like that, Geth, I just – you never make much of it, but – shit. You don’t even do St David’s Day, do you? Stupid. Sorry. Oh fuck, Geth, darling, please?”

Gethin bites his lip, because yes, it does feel a bit – American theme park discovers the ancestral traditions – for him, and he doesn't think he ever, ever made toffee, let alone taffy, it not being something his mother would approve of, on grounds of health, and indeed too close to sensual pleasure; nor, he reminds himself more kindly, would she have been able to afford anything as extravagant as whatever the ingredients are, but if Jonathan thinks it would be fun, then they must be expensive, that he has learnt this year. 

So his first reaction is to tell Jonathan to fuck off out of it with his patronising crap.

But.

Jonathan called him Geth. 

And darling.

And that's the first time since – since that morning when it all went wrong.

Jonathan did all this – looked it up, thought about it, went out and bought things, kept it secret, because he was trying to be nice.

So, maybe slamming doors, and shouting and putting up walls isn’t the right thing to do.

He runs a hand through his hair, and tries to think of a nice way to say it.

“I’m sorry,” he says in the end, “I must be the wrong sort of Welsh. I never made – whatever you called it. But,” he shrugs, “we can, if you want. It might be fun. Unless there’s something else you’d rather do.”

Like me, any way you want me, he doesn't say.

There’s a long moment when they just look at each other, and Gethin wonders if the unspoken phrase was as loud in Jonathan’s ears as in his own – wonders what would happen if he said it. Then Jonathan shrugs,

“Nothing else springs to mind,” he says, and turns away.

Gethin sighs a little, and nods. 

“I’m not wearing that bloody silly thing though,” he says, a bit more bolshy than he means, “you can, you bloody queen.”

And Jonathan turns back, laughs, takes it, and parades around in it most fetchingly, while Gethin borrows his ordinary everyday liberty print – and realises that all he has achieved is to look like a harassed housewife – like his mother, in fact – leaving Jonathan the diva’s role.

Appropriately enough, he supposes.

 

 

Once the taffy – or toffee – Gethin still isn’t entirely sure of the difference, and he suspects Jonathan isn’t really either – is cooling, Jonathan breaks the news that there isn’t much to eat tonight. 

“Just cheese-on-toast really, everything else is marinating or ready for tomorrow,” he says, shrugging, “should be crumpets by the fire really,” Gethin snorts, and he flaps a hand, “not that sort of crumpet – idiot – but you don’t have a fire. Oh, I suppose I might let you have some mince pies, if you’re going to do the pathetic half-starved waif look,” and Gethin feels patronised again, but again puts up with it, because Jonathan, against all expectation, really has made mince pies, by hand, from scratch. And “my family’s Christmas biscuits”, and a cake two months ago, and how did Gethin not notice that, which they have now iced, and, apparently, is planning a serious proper roast dinner tomorrow. Gethin has no idea how he thinks they are going to eat it all, supposes much of it will end up wasted, but bites his lip, and doesn't mutter about other people starving, about poverty, about maybe we should have invited guests, because he isn’t sure which would be worse; to upset Jonathan, or to have him say, great idea, let’s phone everyone we know. But Jonathan is still talking, “Need to have space for tomorrow’s feast though. Although I suppose we won’t be woken at silly o’clock by someone else’s children eager to open stockings in front of an appreciative audience,” and he looks sad for a moment.

Gethin doesn't know quite what to say, never having been to the sort of large family Christmas Jonathan is clearly missing, sensing that an off-colour joke about stockings is not going to be appreciated, but he did think of one thing,

“The church down the road – the one where you don’t go to Evensong on Sundays – they do a midnight mass,” he says, looking carefully at the cheese he has been told to slice, “I asked. You don’t have to be a regular or anything. If you want.”

There is silence for a moment, then Jonathan, who didn’t know his Sunday habits had been so well observed, says, 

“But you hate religion. I’ve heard you. Up there with marriage, and fidelity, and capitalism.”

Gethin stretches his hands out, looks at them, 

“You don’t though,” he says, “and well, I can see there are exceptions. I run this place, don’t I?”

“It’s a co-operative, not really capitalist at all, profit sharing, all that,” they had this argument a while back, and Gethin is pleased to find Jonathan was listening after all.

“Even so,” he goes on, “and maybe – well. I never said these things were always wrong. Just they shouldn’t be imposed on people. I,” he stops, and goes to fill the kettle while Jonathan puts the cheese on the bread as he turns it on the grill, passes the Worcester sauce, looks for teabags, “I think marriage even – it works for some people. A lot of people even. Fidelity. Love.”

His voice is quieter with each word, the teabags inexplicably difficult to find, hiding as they are among the blurring of his vision, blurred with something that can’t be tears, surely, surely not, so silly, so very silly.

“Yes,” and Jonathan sounds the same as ever, “you said. For girls. Lesbians. They do true love and fidelity and poetry pretty well. Bit like vegetarianism. Straight blokes maybe – if they can be bothered, if there’s kids.”

Yes. 

He did say that. Believed it – still believes it. Only now, he wonders. Maybe it could work for a bit, and maybe, just possibly, it might be worth it. Maybe – maybe this idea someone was talking about – a time limit – agreed time limit – and then you both sit down and talk about whether to start again or not.

Only that feels a bit – cold – somehow.

“What are you doing, Geth?” Jonathan has turned back, “are we having tea or not? Bloody hell, get on with it, it’s the least skilled damn job I can give you, you daft Welsh fucker.”

Gethin laughs, as he is meant to, and the evening is back on track.

 

 

Midnight mass is beautiful, and Gethin wonders why he never went before. The singing is perfect – good enough to feel a touch of home, but English enough not to hurt, and, of course, on the way out Jonathan chats up the vicar.

Not literally, Gethin is relieved to see, that would be a bit much really, but – well. They will clearly be welcome another time.

“If you’re not careful,” he warns his friend, “you’ll end up running the bloody Sunday school or something.”

Jonathan shrugs, laughs, 

“Could be fun,” he says lightly, “could be a lot of fun. I like kids, actually.” Hence all the panto, presumably. And the nostalgia for stocking-opening.

Gethin doesn’t say anything.

He didn’t like kids en masse when he was one, he doesn't think that will have changed now. After all, he’s still a poof, still rather read a book than kick a football, let alone take a rugby tackle, still quiet. 

Some things are different, he supposes, as they walk home, and Jonathan’s arm falls casually around him – these days he plays _some_ games very nicely indeed with other boys, and the most popular boy in the town is his best mate.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

 

It hadn’t really occurred to Gethin that Jonathan meant it about helping with the stocktake. That Jonathan would get up, and come down to the shop to find him, and not complain, just ask what he is supposed to do, and try his best to do it.

It hadn’t really occurred to him just how hopeless Jonathan would be at something that involves being calm, and careful, and efficient. At not being distracted, not talking, just counting things and ticking numbers on a list.

It hadn’t really occurred to him how odd it would be to see Jonathan try.

He is relieved when he can legitimately send Jonathan off to do creative things in the kitchen, and work alone.

At this rate, he thinks, he should be done sometime tomorrow. Only slightly later than last year with no help.

Better not drink tonight, then he can get up and get on while Jonathan hibernates because after all, the show is back on tomorrow.

Still, this is, so far, the best Christmas he can remember.

 

 

It stays that way.

All through a long and silly meal, which Jonathan has almost but not quite ready when he goes upstairs. A very fine meal indeed, and with leftovers. 

Leftovers is not really a concept Gethin had come across before Jonathan moved in, but now he is getting used to the idea that something can be left over, and eaten for pleasure, not just to use it up. 

And throughout the day there is music, there is television – only Jonathan doesn’t just watch, he isn’t capable of such passivity. Which of course makes it better.

Until, finally, there is a film of such cloying sweetness that Gethin hates himself for the sentimental tears he can feel gathering. He wants to explain it’s the music, that's all, just the music that sets him off, but when he looks, Jonathan is as bad.

“Look at it this way,” Jonathan says, “if we weren’t affected, these poor sods wasted hours of time. And we’d’ve wasted all that drink if we weren’t sentimental afterwards,” and he grins, and twists round on the sofa, comfortably against Gethin, who laughs, because only Jonathan would think like that, but it’s true. 

Sort of.

And then Jonathan falls asleep, head on Gethin’s shoulder.

The film ends, predictably, and the next Christmas special comes on. It’s dire, painful, hideous, but to get up to switch it off or change channels would wake Jonathan, end this day.

And Gethin doesn't think he has been this happy for a long time.

Maybe not ever.


	12. Chapter 12

**1982**

 

Of course, part of Gethin has been wondering about another night out dancing – like last year – only of course, Jonathan is working again. 

Which means he has a whole new set of cast friends to take up his time.

And, indeed, a new Buttons.

Who is straight, with a baby, thank you God. 

Gethin finds he is quite prepared to hear about the baby, and laugh at stories of the baby, and later in the run, will even be persuaded on a rare off day to go and help choose a present for the baby, and indeed, meet the baby, and the wife, and the Buttons.

Lovely, lovely straight Buttons.

Oh shit, he thinks to himself, we aren’t even a couple, and I’m jealous and possessive. What the sweet fuck would I be like if we were?

And he makes the effort, goes out alone on the prowl.

New Year’s Eve found him, once again, at one of Simon and James’ parties, this time trying not to notice who Jonathan has his arms round, oh call it what you mean, Gethin, who Jonathan was snogging at midnight. Once again finding that the attention of one of the more attractive men in the room is no compensation for breaking a habit.

It didn't help when Simon made a point of popping into the shop on the fifth of January to say how nice it was to see them both, to hand over the phone number of, apparently, Phil, who “is lovely, sweetie, really lovely, and thought you were simply divine”, and to pass on that “that little slapper Mark isn’t going to be looking for any kind of replay with Jonathan you know, definitely not one for second nights”.

No doubt Simon meant it all kindly, and helpfully, but the confirmation that there was indeed a first night, that Jonathan did start 1982 in Mark’s bed – that Gethin’s guest-room was as empty as he suspected – and that ‘lovely’ but dull Phil is the best he can hope for, was really not the message Gethin wanted to hear.

Still.

For now, Jonathan is single, he is single, they both have one-nighters, many of Gethin’s with men much better than Phil, only they all seem dull, and Jonathan’s work being what it is, he isn’t around in the evenings, or the mornings, he’s just as much all over the place as ever, only – only he brings Gethin a coffee mid-morning, which is to say, early morning for him, and he smiles, and Gethin can hear him thumping around the flat, up and down the stairs, music on, singing, and when he gets in there’s food left, and home feels warm and happy and – life is good.

It works, like this, it really works.

It works, because when Gethin is irate and fuming, and passionately anti-war, when the jingo-ism of the tabloid press has him virtually bouncing off the wall with frustration, Jonathan reminds him it is Eurovision time, insists on another party, and his exuberance, his joy in the ludicrousness of it all saves Gethin’s sanity. Or so it feels.

It works because they both care about the striking healthworkers, but Jonathan has the kindness not to ask personal questions, not to ask for tales from the Hillsides when some of the Welsh miners come out in support.

It works because when the shop gets sprayed again, Jonathan doesn’t sympathise or suggest going to the police, he knows what Gethin will say to that – he simply fills a bucket, hands over a cloth, and then wanders off to be in the shop, chat to customers, letting Gethin concentrate on the clean-up. Because that’s the way round that makes sense.

It works because when Gethin’s birthday comes round, Jonathan doesn't make a dramatic fuss of it, no silliness, but he’s a bit kinder, a bit more – gentle – than usual.

It works because when Jonathan’s birthday comes round, Gethin does make a huge production of it, despite his lingering conviction that getting old isn’t really anything of which to be proud, simply failing to die not really a great achievement.

It works for all the nights that they get glammed up and go out dancing, and party, and laugh – whether they stagger home together or not.

It works for all the nights they stay home, and watch tv, and share a sofa.

It works because neither of them care when the Royal Baby is born, when half their friends are swept up in the storm of cooing over the tiny prince. “Fuck it, Geth,” Jonathan says, “they’ve only been married a year. Shit, we’ve spent more time together than they have – certainly known each other a damn sight longer, and better.”

Gethin laughs, and adds, “we’ve probably shagged more as well,” and looks at the pictures of the royal couple, “at least, better – and that was half-plastered,” and they laugh again, and Jonathan pulls him close, and ruffles his hair.

And if, sometimes, Gethin catches the corner of Simon’s eye, and suspects he sees how it is, if he can’t help but ache when he hears Jonathan stumble in with whoever he’s met, can’t help but feel slightly sick when they are clearly having more-than-satisfactory sex, if he finds himself looking at couples, all sorts of couples, and wondering how they can be so brave, and wishing, and wishing, well. 

Sometimes he tells himself it’s his choice, his principles, that it’s better this way. That being tied down, drowning in Clinton cards clichés, would be worse than anything. That compromising integrity to try to fulfil a role that he isn’t able to, that no gay man is, would be the quickest route to misery.

Sometimes he looks at Simon and James, arguing again, or barely speaking, sniping in front of others, walking out, slamming doors, and wonders why anyone would want that.

Sometimes he tells himself that one day, one day he and Jonathan will be too old for that side of things to matter anyway, and this friendship will still be there.

Sometimes he sees Simon and James wreathed in smiles, holding hands just because, whispering nothings to each other, blowing kisses across a room, and feels sick. And doesn't know whether it’s envy, or genuine revulsion at such idiocy.

And sometimes, sometimes his hand reaches down in the dark, and he whispers his longing to the pillow, and hates himself for cowardice.

 

 

&&&&&&&&&&&&

 

 

Pride comes, and Pride goes, and it’s a good day, and Gethin should be pleased it doesn't end with him having to rescue Jonathan from a police station. Only, the reason that he doesn't is because Jonathan isn’t out partying, he’s slightly drunk but not very, and he didn’t go home with the boy he left the party with, he brought him back to the flat. Which is, of course, part of what Pride is about, part of the whole point of being gay, and in London, and footloose and not tied down, and only living with a friend.

Of course it is.

Isn’t it?

 

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

 

 

It’s summer, hot and drowsy, the shop full of passing tourists looking for a guide to fun in London, the leaves on the trees looking sad in the heat, the grass, even in the well-watered parks, not the proper colour of grass at all, but dry and browning. Even after all the years, it’s the one thing Gethin thinks he will never really understand about London – the acceptance of residents that this is the best it gets, that these bare over-used patches are real, that this closeness, one picnic merging with another ballgame, is as good as it gets. 

The heat and the lack of space makes him irritable, hard to live with, but Jonathan doesn't rise to it; he just smiles, and makes plans for a day out of town, a day in the nearest to countryside that they can manage. He offers the seaside, but really, Brighton, gay-on-sea, doesn’t appeal. Gethin doesn't think he can bear the crowds, the brown and sad water, the Englishness of it all. The countryside won’t be proper, won’t be truly open and green, but maybe it would be fun.

In the end it doesn't turn out quite the way either of them thought – somehow, it turns into a group day, twelve of them, and most of it in the pub garden, or on the slow Sunday train, but still, it’s different, it’s a laugh.

Gethin reminds himself that perhaps a full day, just the two of them together, but not together, might be the worst of all.

Afterwards, he’ll remember that day.


	13. Chapter 13

The next morning he assumes when Jonathan flings into the bathroom, and kneels and retches, as he is showering, it is simply a hangover, reaction to too much beer, too much sun, too much icecream, and neither of them say anything.

By day six, Gethin is resigned to catching this bug himself, and has learnt not to even consider locking the door. Not after the cleaning up the kitchen sink experience – because obviously Jonathan couldn’t. He looks like death warmed up as it is.

By day twelve, Gethin is almost worried. It’s not his place to worry, Jonathan is an adult, but still. Every morning he is like this, and although he claims to be fine later on, he isn’t loud, and there is no sign of food being eaten.

Day twenty, Gethin makes the effort to get up slightly earlier, and goes into Jonathan’s room. Seeing him stretched out, sweating, restless, far thinner than he ought to be, Gethin knows he should have worried earlier. He crouches beside the bed, puts the mug and biscuits down, and, with some vague memory of childhood illness, gently touches Jonathan’s forehead.

He is hot, too hot, even Gethin can tell that. And – what is the word – clammy. Not a good sort of heat, not a summer heat. Even as he is thinking it, and wondering what to do, Jonathan wakes, and blinks at him, and Gethin feels the most awful tug inside his chest.

Is this what love is? This wanting to smile, to comfort, reassure, but worried, stupidly worried, because whatever _is_ this, and surely it’s just a summer fever, something adults throw off quick enough, but Jonathan so pale and quiet is not the way the world is meant to be.

“Do you think you can drink something? Eat a biscuit?” he asks, and watches Jonathan blink again, “only, it might help if you can before you try and move.”

Very slowly and cautiously, Jonathan sits up, glares at the mug, 

“It’s ginger and lemon tea, ginger or digestive biscuit,” Gethin says, and adds, “supposed to be good for early morning nausea.”

He carefully doesn't say morning sickness, even though he is drawing on memories of things his mother told him because she thought it would be useful, thought it was the kind of thing a good husband should know, hoped to have a daughter-in-law and grandchildren one day, and that is just one more failure on his part; but Jonathan has sisters, and raises an eyebrow even as he takes the mug, sips slowly, and then manages to nibble a bit of biscuit,

“I’m not sodding pregnant,” he says, and Gethin, caught out, flushes, “fucking hell, Geth, you should bloody know there’s no chance of that; you were never _that_ drunk when we shagged. Too much time with some of the more wacko end of the spectrum, that's your trouble.”

Gethin shrugs,

“Well, how different can it be – it seemed worth a try. Christ, Jonathan, you look awful. This has been going on too long; when was the last time you actually kept a meal down? You need to see a doctor – have you picked up some, I don’t know, tropical thing?”

Jonathan laughs, almost normally,

“What, in fricking Essex?”

Gethin ducks his head, this isn’t the kind of conversation they have,

“No, I don’t know, from someone, some bloke. You wouldn’t know where they’d been,” and then adds hastily, not wanting to sound like his mother, “any more than I do.”

Jonathan doesn’t say anything, just makes a little maybe noise, and carries on slowly drinking. Gethin pats him vaguely, and gets up, because he still has to dress, and run a shop, and so on, but he says again,

“See a doctor. Please,” as he goes.

 

 

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

 

 

But it isn’t his place to nag Jonathan, to make him see a doctor, so instead he adjusts his routine, gets up a little earlier, takes Jonathan a drink and a biscuit, notices that the sickness seems a little better, notices what gets eaten – not much, but ice cream it seems – and buys more of it.

Waits.

Day twenty-four, happens to be the one who answers the phone, takes a message.

Waits up, until Jonathan comes home from wherever he’s been, and says,

“The doctors phoned. You need to go in, make an appointment. She said it was urgent, that you should phone tomorrow morning, give your name, go in. I don’t know why, she wouldn’t say. Just that you had some test results?”

Jonathan doesn't turn from where he is filling the kettle, and looking for teabags, and Gethin wishes he was downing gin, and laughing, and normal again. He flaps a hand and mutters about being fussed over, but he agrees that yes, he will phone, yes, tomorrow, first thing, yes.

Gethin leaves him to his slowly boiling kettle, and goes to bed.

Worrying.

 

 

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

 

 

And next morning, he takes the usual drink and biscuit through, and waits to check Jonathan is waking, which seems cruel, but experience has shown it helps, and comes back and almost forces him out of bed, and to the phone, before he goes downstairs to open up.

There is no coffee that morning, and he assumes Jonathan must be busy, at the doctors perhaps.

He doesn't see him all day, but that isn’t really so unusual, and he is busy so he doesn't think anything of it.

Until he goes home, and when did he start finally thinking of the flat as home, oh yes, when Jonathan put himself on the electoral register here, because you have to vote somewhere, so Gethin goes home, and it’s summer, so the flat isn’t dark or cold, but it’s quiet.

Silent.

So he thinks Jonathan must be out, and he doesn't let that worry him because surely it must be a good sign.

So he just potters about, putting the kettle on, putting the radio on, because sometimes he doesn't want highly staged music, he just wants a bit of tedious quiet talking on Radio 4, a catch up on the day’s news, one of the sounds he grew up with, serious sensible adults talking about politics. He doesn’t listen, not really, he lets it ramble away, and starts wondering about food tonight, and then he wanders into the living room, just to sit and drink his tea, and begin to feel human again.

And Jonathan is sitting there.

He isn’t sitting in the dark, because it’s early September, and not quite six o’clock. He isn’t cold, because he’s still running a temperature; even from the doorway, it not being a large flat, Gethin can see that.

But he’s hunched over into a most un-Jonathan-like position.

And there’s a bottle of gin in front of him, more than half drunk. A bottle that wasn’t in the flat this morning, Gethin is pretty close to certain.

He doesn’t look up, doesn't turn.

He just sits.

Gethin stands for a minute, not sure what to do.

“Jonathan?” he says, uselessly, and then, “what’s happened?”

Afterwards, he’ll remember that. 

It doesn't occur to him to remember the doctors’ message that was so important yesterday – all he thinks of is the aged parents, the sisters who laugh down the phone conspiratorial in their teasing affection for the whirlwind of energy that is Jonathan, the adored nieces and nephews. Because this isn’t Jonathan-who-didn’t-get-the-part, Jonathan-who-is-pissed-off-with-his-agents, Jonathan-who-has-had-an-unpleasant-run-in-with-an-old-flame. This looks serious.

Jonathan doesn't turn and look at him, he doesn't speak, he just pours another glass, and knocks it back in one gulp, and then sighs.

Gethin puts his tea down, and sits on the sofa, close. He wants to reach out, to hold, but he isn’t sure yet.

“Jonathan?” he says again, “is – what can I do?”

Sometimes, in his experience, people can plan what needs to be done even when they can’t bear to describe what has happened.

He waits.

Jonathan stands up, and this could even be the second bottle of the day, Gethin thinks, because he isn’t steady as he walks to the table, and shuffles paper about.

“You’ve done it,” he says, and Gethin doesn't understand, “you made the right decision. Clever Gethin. Didn’t want to – how did I put it – be my boyfriend. Go out with me. Fuck. Well done, Gethin. Big prize. You just might – might – not get this thing.”

Gethin still doesn't understand, but he thinks he is starting to,

“What have you got?” he asks, and then, “come on, Jonathan, you’re not telling me you haven’t had any kind of VD before? Christ, I know I have, and your life is a damn sight more exciting than mine. Just go down the bloody clap-clinic, get it sorted.”

Jonathan laughs.

Only it isn’t a proper laugh. It stops in the middle, and his face twists, and he leans forward, weight on his arms on the table, before he says,

“Get it sorted. Yes. Well. I can’t, wonder boy, I bloody can’t. They can’t. They – oh shit, Geth – you’re supposed to be the clever one, the political one, the aware one. This – whatever they call it over in San Francisco. This virus that kills,” he stumbles over the word, “kills gays. It’s not American. Not anymore.”

Gethin looks at him, still stupid, still not wanting to understand.

“Another bloody American import,” he laughs that strange, twisted and painful laugh again, “and I’m not even the first. Not even that fucking fame. No name in lights for me. He’s dead. Second. Shit. He died in days. They do over there. So. What can you do? You can keep away from me, you can think about which of my things you want, you can decide who’s going to move in, you can clean the fucking flat, disinfect it of me, you can look for a nice clean boyfriend, and you can fucking well take care of yourself and not catch this.”

His voice has risen, and Gethin notices that even at this moment, his projection and enunciation is perfect – and wonders what is wrong with him that he notices.

Jonathan has found whatever it was he was looking for among the papers, and he brings the bundle over to Gethin, drops them on him, and then takes his glass and his bottle, and slams the door of his room.

 

 

Gethin being Gethin, he doesn't run after Jonathan, he doesn't panic, he doesn't move. He sits and reads the leaflets, carefully, slowly. 

He even gets a piece of paper and makes notes of the important bits.

Then he sits, tapping his pen on his teeth, and looks into space for a bit.

He makes a phonecall, and then another.

He goes through to the kitchen and makes toast, and tea.

Puts the buttered toast to keep warm in a low oven, as he learnt to do long ago, on cold, dark, Welsh evenings.

He goes to Jonathan’s door, and knocks, and waits, and knocks again, and waits some more.

Opens it.

“Come and eat something,” he says, and then, “I’m not going to throw you out, I’m not going to tell anyone you don’t want to know, I’m not even going to talk to you about being sensible, and taking care of yourself. Unless you want me to. I just want you to eat something if you can, and stop drinking gin. Otherwise the bathroom will stink of it tomorrow morning when you puke it up, and I hate that.”

He has judged it right, because Jonathan laughs, and if it isn’t his usual happy sound, it isn’t quite as bitter and painful as before, and he comes through, and pours the rest of the gin down the sink, and eats some toast, and drinks some tea, and laughs again at the story of what Simon has been up to now, and agrees to watch some crap on tv, just for a bit, and sits on the sofa again, and it is almost normal.

Only it isn’t.

And it never will be again.

After half an hour, Gethin realises Jonathan is asleep, and he looks at him, really looks, and thinks, and admits the terror in him at losing this man is beyond what he should feel for a friend.

And lets himself feel the guilt that if he hadn’t been so fucking stupid – so blind – so principled – so afraid – then maybe, just maybe, this virus wouldn’t be in Jonathan now.

Or, as Jonathan seems to have decided, it would be in both of them.

They will never know who is right.

Gethin takes Jonathan’s right hand in his own, very gently, and brings it up close, and kisses it, and holds it to him.

Jonathan mutters something, and turns, and leans on Gethin, who puts his other arm around him, and holds him as he stares unseeingly at the tv.

I won’t let him go, he thinks, not until I have to. I won’t give this up.

And if Jonathan wants to carry on calling it friendship, it doesn't matter.

If they can’t have everything they might have done, it doesn’t matter.

So long as he is here, and the flat is home, none of it matters.

It doesn't.

It really doesn’t.


	14. Chapter 14

Gethin tells himself this over and over again, during the next few weeks.

Jonathan has rejected all of the new experimental drugs. He is refusing to change anything about his life.

Almost anything.

He hasn’t stopped going out clubbing til all hours, but he has stopped stumbling home with a new conquest, stopped coming in late and smelling of sex.

Gethin doesn't comment on any of it. As he said he wouldn’t.

He takes responsibility for having good plain food that Jonathan can cope with, can eat, around. He stops smoking, and hints that it might be a good idea, and notices that Jonathan moves to rolling his own, to more grass, less tobacco, to slightly fewer, and decides that will do for now. He wonders if they should cut down on alcohol, but doesn't dare suggest it.

Gethin being Gethin, he reads up as much as he can on this GRID, AIDS, HIV, whatever it is, and he starts leaving leaflets around in the backroom of the shop, starts to teach himself the right things to say. Because soon enough, there are going to be more and more men with this, more and more in need of help, and advice, and support groups.

Jonathan being Jonathan, he isn’t interested in any of it, he is too busy living life for now, enjoying what he can, and Gethin doesn't have any reason to say stop, because if that's what makes him smile, and laugh, and not that awful bitter laugh but something closer to normal, then that's what Jonathan must do.

All the same, he misses the nights in front of the tv together, misses the easiness, the quietness. He worries this is manic, this energy, this need to be out, to be on the go all the time, that Jonathan is riding for a fall – but there’s nothing he can do. They are only friends. 

Jonathan isn’t interested in being sensible, in taking care, in helping others. He isn’t interested in Gay Lib, “because what the fuck does it matter to me, Geth?”, he can’t even manage to raise an eyebrow when an announcement by the Chancellor makes it clear that the biggest selloff of state industries is coming, “what difference does it make to me, Geth, you want to be a socialist, build a better future, good fucking luck”. 

Gethin doesn’t have the heart to shout, to argue, to explain why it matters, why it will always matter, why things outside you matter more than ever now, surely, why having something else to think about might help, might take some of the edge off, might put some of that manic energy to good use. Because after all, what does he know?

But he adjusts his routine again, starts to go upstairs mid-morning, shutting the shop for just ten minutes, to make sure Jonathan has a drink and biscuit before he tries to get up.

Until one day, that phase is over, and Jonathan doesn't need fussing over like some bloody child, thank you very much, Geth. 

And that shouldn’t leave him feeling cold and unneeded, feeling afraid of what next, any more than Jonathan making the effort to see his parents, his sisters and their kids a bit more should leave him feeling low.

Fortunately Gethin is good at bottling up emotions, putting them aside for the day he might have the luxury to deal with them.

 

 

It’s been a long day, what with one thing and another, but Gethin has screwed himself up to the sticking point, he needs to do this, and so, when he walks into the flat, he’s relieved to see Jonathan is watching some old film, sprawled on the sofa, not obviously ill, but not leaping around either. He looks up as Gethin stands there, 

“Where were you – this afternoon? I brought you tea, and you weren’t there. You’re always in that bloody shop. It was downright odd seeing someone else behind the till. Where were you?” and for an instant, although this is the opening he needs, all Gethin feels is claustrophobia, all he can think is ‘you don’t own me, I was out, I’m a free agent, it’s up to me where I go, what I do, who I see’, and he has to fight down the fear that what he is about to say will end that.

Of course, there is a much greater fear, that what he is about to say might end much more than that, it might ruin everything, but somehow, that fear he has rehearsed protection against. If I don’t, I’ll always wish I had. I’ve been slow enough, I daren’t be slower.

It’s still true, he reminds himself, but even so, the sticky tendrils of mine, owned, possession, jealousy, threaten to suffocate him, to choke the words down and away, until he ends up almost blurting it all out unprepared, shouting it in anger instead of using the carefully thought-out words, the right tone of voice.

Because, of course, that has worked so well before. 

_“I’m gay, queer, homosexual, I don’t want to get married, I don’t fancy girls, I want to have sex with men. So stop going on about why don’t I ever bring anyone home, stop saying I should be different. It’s not going to happen. I am what I am. You don’t understand me, you’ve never understood me, you always wanted me to be different. And I don’t believe in your God, or any God, and I don’t care if you think I’m going to Hell. So long as you’re not there, I’ll be happy.”_

_And the silence, the aching silence that followed has never gone away._

He doesn't though.

He bites his lip, physically preventing himself speaking, until the anger has passed, and the truth that Jonathan looked for him, thought of him, and worried about him, is there instead. That this isn’t controlling behaviour, this is just someone who doesn't have a lot of trust in the world at the moment.

Jonathan has turned back to the screen now, but Gethin can see a glint of something in his eyes, something that looks suspiciously like tears, and it isn’t the black and white drama causing it surely, because that's all ending happily, the girl is marrying the hero, and they are singing about how wonderful life is.

Maybe it is the film, he thinks, and walks forward anyway.

Sits on the sofa.

“I’ll tell you where I was,” he says, “I went –“

“It doesn't matter, I’m sorry Geth. I shouldn’t have said that, I just – “ Jonathan shrugs, and keeps staring at the screen as the credits roll.

Gethin can’t get used to this inarticulate Jonathan. It isn’t natural.

He watches as the screen changes to racing, and wonders if he should get up and switch it off, or if this is the background that will make the next conversation easier.

In the end, he simply turns it down a little, and sits again,

“I went to the doctors. Not about you,” he can see the bristle, knows how Jonathan is likely to react, “they wouldn’t talk to me about you, anyway. I went to get my results. I got tested. Only they won’t send the envelope, I had to go in and open it with a nurse. And then be lectured. Anyway.”

He stops, because this is the difficult part.

Jonathan’s fingers are drumming a rhythm on his knee, and it isn’t the rhythm of the hooves on the screen.

“I don’t have it,” Gethin says, “I don’t know why not, how not, but there it is. This was the second test. They make you wait eight weeks after a clear test, do it again, to be sure. I thought I should tell you.”

“Lovely for you.” It is said deadpan, no emotion showing, and Gethin bites his lip again.

He shrugs as the pause stretches, and then makes himself start again.

“She – the nurse – she went through all the safe-sex stuff. There – there’s actually quite a lot – they know more now already than when you – I mean – if you wanted – to –“

“Fucks sake, Geth. Leave it.” Still staring at the screen.

But Gethin has got this far.

“She asked why I wanted to be tested, why I thought I was at risk. Well, that was pretty obvious, I thought. And then she made me think about what I was going to do, whatever the result was.”

He stops again, and looks at Jonathan, searching for any kind of sign, but it seems that the replay of the 4.10 at Newmarket, or whatever this is, is the most fascinating thing Jonathan has ever seen. Gethin swallows, and wonders if he really has the courage.

Yes.

Because if not now, when?

There might not be another chance.

“I don’t know what I was thinking to start with, when I phoned them, it was straight away after you – told me. But by the time I went back, I knew. And I almost – I didn’t know what to hope for today. Because if I had it, then – then this might be easier.”

He stops again, and Jonathan still isn’t looking, isn’t responding, so he looks down at his hands, picking away at a loose seam in his jeans.

“Christ. She said what was I going to do if it was positive and all I could think was – tell him I love him. Only it wasn’t. But – I do.”

Shit, he thinks, that was pretty awful, Gethin. 

The silence stretches, and Gethin can’t look up.

The horses are doing something exciting, to judge by the commentator’s voice, but even if he looks, he won’t be able to see. He tries to swallow it down, blink it away, it doesn't matter, none of it matters, stop being silly. You know love is only a construct, something society imposes, you just let yourself get sucked in.

But it hurts, and he doesn't know how to stand, to walk away.

Jonathan gives a little laugh, not bitter, not painful, just small and – and trying for ironic, Gethin thinks.

“And have you – will you tell him?” he says, and oh diolch i ddu, thank God, he hasn’t understood, he hasn’t rejected me, he simply hasn’t understood. Gethin is still searching for better words, and how can a bookseller be so stupid at this, as Jonathan goes on, “I hope he, whoever he is, and please tell me it’s not fricking Simon, I hope he makes you happy. I’ll move out, it’s ok, I understand –“

And Gethin can’t bear it any more, and he looks up at Jonathan, and he is still staring at the screen, but it’s changed to adverts now, and surely he can’t even be slightly interested in this – no, of all things not in retirement health plans – and Gethin for once in his life finds the right words.

“Shut up,” he says, “stop being so fucking stupid. Simon. Jesus Christ. It’s you, you fool. I love you.”

Jonathan looks at him at last, and there is more than a trace of his true self in the twist of his mouth, in his arrogance, as he grins, and nods, and,

“I know, you daft sod. I didn’t think you’d realised yet. Thought you were going to go off and have some stupid fucking affair to show you didn’t. Of course you love me. I thought it might take til the bloody death-scene to get you to say it, but I know. And I love you. And we’re practically married – have been for over a year – even though you won’t admit it.”

And Gethin is open-mouthed with shock, and with laughter, and – and but if you knew – if you feel the same – then why, why – why Ricky, why Tony, why Steve, why Dan, why any of them – and Jonathan is laughing at him, and shaking his head, and pulling Gethin in close, where he ought to be, where he wants so much to be, where he belongs.

“Because it wasn’t what you wanted, idiot. Because you were so caught up in the whole politics of it, so sure of your position, I couldn’t tear it down. I had to wait for you to do that. I love you how you are, Geth. Fiery and stubborn and idealistic. Why would I want to change you?”

Then he buries his head in Gethin’s neck, and adds,

“Mind, I have been wondering recently. If you really were going to make me wait until the last minute,” he takes a deep shuddering breath, and his grip tightens, “or – or beyond, and hurt yourself. And then, shit Geth, you – I really thought for a minute you were going to tell me all about some other tosser you had a crush on – I didn’t know what to do, how to bear that.”

Gethin holds him, and he can’t quite believe it yet, can’t quite make out how they have both been so stupid, so slow, but one thing he does know, and he just keeps saying it,

“I love you, I love you. I love you,” but for the first time he can feel Jonathan trembling, feel the fear that he now lives with, that is part of him, has been all these weeks, and Gethin would give anything to take that away, but all he can do is promise, “I won’t leave you, I would never. Whatever. I love you.”

And maybe it isn’t how he would have thought of it, had he ever let himself think of it, maybe they have got their timing badly wrong, maybe it isn’t perfect, and it won’t be easy, and maybe it won’t last for long, maybe Jonathan won’t last long, but this might, just might, be worth every second of the pain, because Jonathan is here, and real, and holding him back, and saying it with him,

“I love you, Geth, I love you, my darling, my sweetheart, I love you.”

 

 

Later, much later, hours of snogging on the sofa later, because kissing is alright, it’s safe, and the wittering tv in the background reliably plays some passion-killing advert or news clip every time they get tempted to go further, Gethin leads Jonathan to bed, because I have to get up tomorrow, even if you don’t, you lazy bastard, I need to sleep. Just sleep. 

For now.

Because neither of them has any experience with condoms, even though the nice nurse insisted Gethin take some, and frankly, they look terrifyingly complicated, and isn’t there some sort of special lube, and what about the risk if it goes wrong Jonathan says, and looks terrified, and so maybe that's something to work up to anyway.

This, this holding, and whispering, and just being together; this is enough for now. Although Gethin makes a note in his mind that it won’t be for long, because Jonathan isn’t actually sick and he hates that his mind adds the word ‘yet’ but it’s true, they don’t have time to waste. And they both know just how good sex has always been together, they both know just how good sex feels; they both want that, and Gethin doesn't know about Jonathan, but he – he wants so much to be able to say ‘I love you’ afterwards. So he had better go through all those leaflets again, and really, condoms can’t be that difficult, surely?

And next morning, Gethin brings Jonathan a coffee, and looks at the lump under his duvet, and smiles, 

“You’re a habit I don’t want to break,” he says, and the grunt in reply is enough to reassure him it’s mutual.


	15. Chapter 15

It’s nearly a month later, a month since everything changed, that Simon comes into the shop as Jonathan is taking the mid-morning coffee mugs away, and leans on the counter and looks at Gethin speculatively,

“Well, sweetie, are you two going to have a party or something? A Christmas party? A we’ve-finally-got-ourselves-together party? An engagement-party?” his eye travels over Gethin, and Gethin blushes, hating himself for it, hating that he chose to wear the ring today, only Jonathan was low last night, and he wanted to do something to cheer him.

He shrugs,

“Not really ones for parties at the moment,” he mutters, and really, it’s a stupid excuse, because Jonathan isn’t the only man who’s had bad news this year, and actually he seems to be holding up ok so far, whatever the reason, and they’ve had some arguments over that, because seriously, Jonathan, grass? I think if that worked they would have noticed by now, but keeping busy, attitude of mind, that's not effing witch-doctory, honestly, cariad, that's important. Because now Gethin can say these things, now it’s ok to show just how much it matters, how much he cares – and for all that Jonathan pretends to not want any fuss, he cares too, he needs to know this is real.

Simon sighs, and the painted facade almost shows a crack,

“No, sweetie, I guess not. But on the other hand, if not now, when? And your man looks so proud of his ring, flashing it around he is, he’s always had lovely hands, but I swear he gestures with them more than ever just to see it, to make people notice,” and yes, that is entirely possible, entirely Jonathan completely-over-the-top-exhibitionist Blake, and Gethin smiles down at the desk, and thinks he won’t ever let on just how long it took to search out that ring, find the perfect one, have it sized, and how much it cost. Because so far, he’s managed to convince Jonathan that he just saw it in a junk shop, and it happened to be the right size, and it is just a bit of fun, and if Jonathan wants to see it as some kind of bloody heteronormative symbol, if he wants to buy into oppressive customs, then that's not Gethin’s fault.

As for the ring he himself is wearing, well.

Jonathan produced it during the moving of not all, never all, but many of his possessions into Gethin’s room – their room – and almost seemed flippant when he handed it over.

“Nothing fancy, just plain,” and then he looked at Gethin, and he must have seen the tightness, seen the panic, the claustrophobia rising, “you don’t have to wear it. Unless you want to dress up. It’s for having, not wearing. For giving, largely. I need to know you have it, that you know I mean it when I say I love you, because Christ knows, I’m a temperamental bitch sometimes, and I’ll have bad days anyway, even without this extra – shit – so,” he shrugged, “just keep it somewhere. I bought it a while back, it’s been sitting in my jewellery box for near on eighteen months, been wondering how, when, to give it to you.”

Gethin remembers all this, even as Simon is pausing but he doesn't see the need to share any of it, and then Simon quietly pushes up one sleeve, and Gethin recognises the tell-tale purple marks of Kaposi’s, even as he takes a breath, and smiles again, determinedly,

“Between you and me, sweetie, James isn’t looking so great either. Different, but – no, have a party. Please. Soon.”

And for all Gethin doesn't really like Simon, he nods, wordless, because there simply isn’t anything to say.

There really isn’t.


End file.
